An Acquired Taste
by Magnolia822
Summary: Arrogant British celebrity chef Edward Cullen made an impression on NYC caterer Bella Swan long before either one of them became a success. Now, armed with her cat and a devious practical joke, Bella's plan may turn up the heat for both of them. ExB OOC
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns it all. I'm just . . . hell, I don't know what I'm doing. Representations of Alec Baldwin are completely fictional, and no offense is intended. Some other famous people will probably appear in this fic. All of that will be fictional too.**

**A/N: I'd like to thank a whole sexy team of ladies for their hawtness, wit, and time. At the helm is Mac214—she's agreed to beta this sucker and without her I'd just be scrawling drivel on a page. I also have a super-sexy awesome trio of prereaders: BellaFlan, DiamondHeart78, and Ms. Junkowski. Thank you, thank you, thank you!**

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><p><strong>Chapter One: America's Hottest Chef? <strong>

I sighed and stretched away from my desk, stifling a yawn as I considered the contracts laid out before me. Wedding season in New York drew some of the city's richest and most frivolous clients to _La Vie en Rose_. This particular couple wanted ice cream sundaes with gold-coated sprinkles; apparently the bride saw some show about the most expensive desserts in the country, and that had been one of them. To me, it sounded tacky as hell.

Of course I couldn't complain about it since clients like these helped to put my business on the map. Only four short years ago, Rose, my best friend, and I started from nothing, calling our business Swan and Hale Edibles; I had a bank loan that put med students to shame and a small corner kitchen and office in the Meatpacking district. We started off small – five staff, one of whom talked us into switching the name to La Vie En Rose – all of us working every contract we got, prepping into the wee hours of the night.

Feeling for my shoes under the table, I buzzed the intercom. My assistant Emmett answered almost immediately.

"Bella, are you still here?"

"Yeah," I said tiredly. "Still here."

"I thought you left, girl. I haven't heard any moans or groans or anything being thrown in the past hour."

"Ha ha. Listen Em, I need you to find an ingredient for me. Can you come in for a second?"

Moments later, Emmett burst through the door. His tight, black button down strained over his gigantic pectorals, the rolled up sleeves showcasing the bottom of his full arm tattoo—a piece he'd been working on for years. As long as it stayed covered during events, I didn't mind.

"You rang, darling?" He sat across from me, crossing ankle over knee.

I slid the contract over to him and pointed at my notes with the eraser end of my pencil. "The Steinway/McCloud wedding wants fucking gold sprinkles on their ice cream; I hate to make you run out tomorrow on your day off . . . but . . ."

Emmett grabbed a sticky note from my desk and scribbled "Hmm . . . gold for the Jew/Shiksa wedding. Sweetie is starting it off right. Got it."

"Emmett." I snorted in spite of myself.

"What?" he asked innocently. "Now _that _would make a great reality TV show."

"You're in the wrong business, my friend."

"All right, boss-lady, is that all?"

"Yep, that's it for now. I think I'm leaving."

"It's about time. It's a wonder you keep a man with these crazy hours." He stood again and gave me an appraising look, part judgment, part concern.

I glanced at my watch, noticing with some alarm how time had flown._ Already after eight. Oh no. _

"I had no idea it was so late." I paused. "What are you still doing here?"

"Laurent fucked up the cupcake order for that NBC gig." Emmett sighed, putting his hands on his hips. "I've been helping him frost."

"Shit, the one for _30 Rock_? Don't mess with Baldwin's cupcakes."

"I know," Emmett replied with a barely-concealed shudder. "Remember what happened last time?"

"Don't remind me."

Apparently Alec Baldwin had a serious aversion to any pink-colored food; he'd reacted badly to our Valentine's Day dessert spread, screaming something about love and abandonment. Until that day I never knew the joys of cleaning buttercream off NBC studio ceilings.

The fact we'd held the contract after that seemed a small miracle.

"Okay, well, thanks for looking out for me."

"Sounds good, sweetness. We up for hot yoga tomorrow?"

Sunday mornings, Emmett usually dragged me out of bed to attend his early class on the Lower East Side. We'd sweat like stuck pigs, then go drink spirulina yogurt shakes to cleanse our charkas. Or something. In the past six years, Emmett had become my closest friend, aside from Rose. The three of us spent most of our free time together, unless one of them had a flavor of the month. My love life was admittedly tamer.

"If I can. I might go to Felix's tonight." The guy I'd been seeing for the past year lived in Brooklyn, and if I headed there tonight, I couldn't see myself coming back to Manhattan so early in the morning.

Emmett sighed dramatically. "Oh well. Fine, just abandon me."

"I would never abandon you, baby."

"Mmm-hmm." He gave me a skeptical nod but smiled, waggling his eyebrow. "Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"I'm not having butt sex tonight."

"But you love it." He grinned.

"Yeah. I kind of do."

"TMI, girl, TMI."

I laughed at the joke; anyone who knew Emmett well understood he considered nothing too personal.

After Emmett and I said our goodbyes, I grabbed my stuff and looked around my office, making sure I'd picked up all the work for tomorrow afternoon on my "day off."

How times had changed.

While I still worked events myself, I now had a staff of twenty, a much bigger kitchen with better equipment, and storefront where we sold some of our most popular entrees, individually wrapped and frozen. My office sat on the second story of a newly rezoned and remodeled building right across from one of Mario Batali's eateries—one of many signs of the gentrification that had recently made the Meatpacking district such a popular neighborhood. In some ways it was sad; I hated the idea of pushing out old residents, mostly poor or minority, and raising the rent. But no place in Manhattan had been spared this fate. At least it hadn't turned into the Disneyfication of Times Square . . . sometimes I missed the dirt and the hookers in that area, just for the gritty flavor it put off. I liked my whores to be more blatant about it.

I locked the door behind me, noticing Emmett had gone downstairs, probably to help Laurent finish up. Once outside, I immediately dialed Felix's number. We'd been planning to meet for dinner tonight, but he hadn't called.

He answered on the third ring.

"Hey," I said, pushing open the front door and stepping into the muggy city night. People walked quickly on their way to dinner or home from work, and I immediately fell in step behind a couple walking their Boston terrier, a cute, fugly kind of thing.

"You're just leaving?"

"Yeah. I'm so sorry. I'm just gonna pop by my apartment and get my stuff. I can be there in an hour."

"It'll be almost ten by then, Bella," Felix said. His voice seemed tired, irritated.

"I know! I suck. I really do. I honestly had no idea what time it was until Emmett reminded me."

He sighed, and my pace slowed.

"You don't want me to come?" I asked in a small voice.

"Maybe not tonight. I'm beat. I had a really shitty day." As a lawyer at a prestigious New York firm, Felix put in long hours like I did. It was one of the reasons our relationship worked.

"What about tomorrow? You wanna meet up and have lunch in the park?"

"I can't. I have to go in tomorrow." He yawned loudly, which for some reason irritated me.

"On Sunday?"

"I have that big case starting on Monday, remember?"

"I forgot. Right. I guess I'll talk to you later then."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll call when I get out. Shouldn't be too late."

"Sounds good."

We talked for a few more minutes as I made my way home, but the conversation seemed superficial. It just didn't seem like either of us had much to say, and Felix expressed minimal interest when I complained about the tacky gold sundaes. To be fair, I could care less about his golf business meeting in Jersey. _Had it always been like this?_ I wondered as I made the right turn onto the tree-lined West Village street where I rented a small townhouse apartment, clicking my phone shut with a sigh. I guessed no sex, butt or otherwise, would happen tonight.

_Looks like I have a date with my vibrator and frozen taquitos. Score._

I briefly considered calling Rose to ask about her plans, but I figured she was probably spending the night with Demetri, her new fabulous Greek boy toy. And clubbing with Emmett down at the bear bars did not sound appealing—at all. The last time I did that Emmett left me to make out with some guy named Steve, and I wound up getting drunk with a drag queen who felt me up and stole my wallet.

As I fiddled with my key, a plaintive, yet delicate meow sounded through the door.

"Hey, PV," I said as I opened the door and dropped my bags on the floor. My ginger cat rubbed against my legs, swishing her tail from side to side. "I know. I know. It's dinnertime."

At the word "dinner," PV padded away toward the kitchen, the sound of her footfalls barely audible on the wood floor.

Besides Emmett and Rose, Pussy Veritas, my six year old cat, was my most loyal companion. Of course I couldn't tell if she actually liked me or if she just liked the foul smelling grey matter I lumped into her dish every night.

Probably a bit of both.

I had bequeathed her Latinate name on her after her original became . . . distasteful.

I wrinkled my nose and gave PV her meal of canned innards before ferreting through my freezer to locate anything edible. For someone who owned a catering business, there was very little by way of actual victuals in my apartment. Finally I located a sad-looking Lean Cuisine dinner and popped it in the microwave, pouring myself a giant glass of Bordeaux from the opened bottle on the table as I waited for it to heat.

Bills, bills, credit card statements; I flipped through my mail with disinterest while PV noisily devoured her dinner. At one point, she looked up at me with an expression that could only be labeled as skepticism.

"I know, I know. This wine is completely oxidized. Mommy should really have bought a nice, fresh bottle." With another flick of her tail and something I could have sworn was a roll of her eyes, she went back to eating.

A few minutes later, steaming broccoli linguini and wine in hand, I made my way to the tiny living room, turning on the TV and sinking back into my plush green sofa with a relieved sigh. It felt good to be home. Finally sated, PV curled up next to me as I flipped through the channels, landing on the Food Network.

Since I'd been so busy lately, I hardly watched TV anymore, though when I did I usually went for the cooking shows. I caught the tail end of a program on barbecue that made my mouth water, though not for the sludge on my plate.

_This crap sucks,_ I thought, forking a bite of mushy pasta into my mouth. But cooking at home just didn't seem appealing anymore, not when I did it all day, everyday at work.

The show ended just as I finished my meal. I placed my plate on the coffee table and stretched, getting ready to turn off the television when my jaw hit the floor.

The announcer spoke excitedly as a montage of pictures flashed on the glowing HD screen—holy shit.

Reddish-brown hair. Eyes so green they practically glowed in the dark. Cocky smile. No. _It fucking can't be_. My heart pounded, and my hands turned into oil slicks as they fought to grip the now-slippery remote.

"You've seen him on _Best Chef UK_, where he recently bested eleven competitors to reign supreme in the world of cuisine." Even in my daze, I mentally berated the writers for creating such horrible drivel. _Best Chef UK_?

Could it really be him?

Then a particularly insane picture flashed, leaving no doubt in my mind. Bare-chested in the kitchen. Sweaty. _Is that even legal?_ I lost my breath again. But only because of the shock, not because he looked amazing.

""Now, with a three star Michelin restaurant under his belt and a new establishment in the works, British phenom Edward Cullen is coming to America. His challenge? To take eight inexperienced home cooks and mold them into world-class chefs. Only one will make it to the end and become _America's Hottest Chef_.

Now Edward appeared on the screen wearing a chef's coat, his crazy hair wilder and longer than I remembered. Folding his arms, he seemed to stare directly at me.

His voice resonated through my head, a memory of his hands on my arms spinning out, bringing with it the last thing he said to me: "Take care of that pussy." And then he'd grinned at me – that same stupid grin he wore on the television.

"I'm Edward Cullen, and I'm here to give you the royal treatment, America."

That broke the spell.

"The royal treatment?" I half-gagged, half-snorted. _Wow, whoever wrote this crap should be tarred and feathered._ Edward seemed quite pleased with himself, his satisfied smile turning up the right corner of his mouth. I still couldn't believe it. I even pinched myself.

Ow.

"Holy shit, PV. Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" PV curled upwards, her little paws extended in the air as she waited for her belly-rub. She had no idea of the connection between herself and the douche bag on the screen.

The announcer began introducing the poor saps who would be publicly humiliated by Edward all in the name of our entertainment, and my eyes got wider and wider. A housewife from Duluth named Victoria, whose signature dish was seven-layer dip. Some hash slinging, tattooed dude from Albany. A tiny, mousy girl who couldn't be more than nineteen and twitched like a crack addict. A man with three chins and, from the looks of it, probably more stomachs. Zafrina, a giggly chick with tits bigger than Rosalie's. Hmm.

Edward faced his motley crew, hands on hips and scowl on face. He said something ridiculous about this being "the top drawer" and that he wouldn't deal with any "blasted funny business." The words coming out of his mouth seemed so foreign, and not because they were punctuated with kitschy British curse words and colloquialisms.

He didn't seem like the same guy at all.

_But I never really knew him, now did I? _

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><p><strong>AN: Yes, I know I said I'd wait to post, but apparently I have no willpower. I don't know who you can thank for that—maybe my parents for making me the youngest child. **

**This story will be BPOV, and I plan to post once a week on Wednesdays. Let's see how that works out! **

**Please let me know what you think of the first chapter. **

**xox**

**M  
><strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns it all. I'm just . . . hell, I don't know what I'm doing. **

**A/N: Thanks to my super-beta Mac214 and my prereaders: BellaFlan, DiamondHeart78, and Ms. Junkowski. This story wouldn't be half as good without all of you. **

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><p><strong>Chapter Two: Sir Douchenozzle<strong>

The next morning I rolled out of bed feeling hung-over but not from drinking. I had slept badly.

Bleary-eyed, I made my way to the kitchen and groped for the coffee filters. PV sat by my feet, waiting for me to drop something edible on the floor.

"It's just coffee, doofus," I told her as I put the pot on. "Cats can't drink coffee . . . I don't think."

The clock on the wall read quarter 'til eight, which would give me plenty of time to make it to yoga with Emmett. I sent him a quick text and went to change as the coffee brewed, trying and failing to keep my thoughts off Edward.

An unwanted thrill passed through my body when he looked at the camera last night: a particularly disarming expression that reminded me of how he'd looked the first time we'd kissed.

All I could see were lips and green, green eyes.

He'd leaned closer, and my heart hammered with a mix of alarm and delight as his mouth approached kissing proximity. And then they were too close to see. I felt his warm breath on my face and watched his eyes grow hooded. I closed my eyes.

And then his lips had met mine softly. He'd brought his hand to my face and pressed closer, and I angled toward him, moving my mouth against his. His hand trailed over my leg and lightly gripped my hip, and I nearly moaned when I felt him finger the edge of my shorts.

"Dammit!" I cursed aloud, alone in my bedroom, stopping myself from reliving the memory.

PV hopped up onto the dresser as I searched for clean workout clothes, her tail twitching as if she knew exactly what – or whom – I was thinking about.

He seemed so . . . different now.

The rest of the episode of _America's Hottest Chef _confirmed my initial assessment: most of the hopefuls seemed like complete morons. After introductions, the first challenge asked each contestant to sharpen a set of dull knives using a honing steel and then to debone a chicken. Surprisingly, Bree, the waifish crackhead, successfully sharpened her blades quicker than anyone else and made quick work of the pink, fleshy poultry. Edward expressed his pleasure by narrowing his eyes, wrinkling his forehead, holding up a piece of breast meat, and grunting at her.

Most of them didn't get off so easy.

"You're going to kill yourself!" Edward yelled at a cowering Victoria as she held her carving knife tentatively in her right hand. Her bottom lip quivered, and he yanked both tools away, showing her how to draw the knife against the steel at the proper angle.

"Do you sharpen your knives at home?" he demanded.

"N-n-no, Chef. My husband does it."

Edward crossed his arms and scowled, his green eyes darkening. "Well, your bloody husband isn't here, is he? Are you going to do this properly, or do you want to leave?"

"I want to stay," she said softly, eyes downcast.

"Well, prove it! Next!"

She had no idea what to do, granted, but he didn't need to act like such an asshole. The poor woman slunk away, defeated.

Was this the same guy who drove me three hours just to see wild horses? Who'd made me fresh beignets when I'd told him they were my favorite?

Of course later he'd undone those kindnesses. I'd spent months trying to sort through fact and fiction, the reality of the boy and the fantasy I'd created in my mind. How much of this character was Edward, and how much was him hamming it up for the camera?

The next contestant didn't fare much better. A fairly good looking guy named Garrett chose the wrong knife for the task, and Edward scoffed with derision at the badly butchered meat, sending the dude on his way with a flick of his hand. The casting director must have had a field day selecting these people. I felt a strange mixture of embarrassment, fascination, pity, and disgust for them all.

I couldn't believe the strangeness of the next woman to appear. Siobhan, a thirty-year-old anthropologist with long, auburn hair and horn-rimmed glasses, groping around the kitchen like Mr. Magoo. Why she wanted to get into cooking, I had no idea. She kept talking about the mating habits of diurnal lemurs in Madagascar.

I fortified myself by pouring a second glass of wine.

Finally there was Zafrina. Even as Edward yelled at her, she giggled and batted her eyelashes, her smile growing larger with each insult. Later, she had no apprehension about telling the camera about what she truly coveted—not the fifty thousand dollars that would be awarded to the winner or the sous chef position at his new restaurant—but Edward himself.

"He's so dreamy," she said with a sigh. "You know?"

_Good luck with that, lady, _I thought, taking a deep glug of wine.

After watching as much of Sir Douchenozzle and his gaggle of merry idiots as I could take, I grabbed one of my emergency stress cigarettes from the freezer and popped out to the garden veranda at the back of my apartment. The ancient tobacco felt like it had stripped the outer layer of skin off my esophagus, and I coughed as though I'd been smoking three packs a day for decades. PV eyed me through the glass door, her tail swishing in disapproval. I hadn't smoked regularly in over a year, but I still kept a pack around for moments like these—if I had a particularly hellish work day or if a man I once . . . liked got his own cooking show.

"Hey," I said to the night air, "I might be getting cancer, but at least I'm not googling him. I could be googling him right now."

The thought, once uttered, hung in the air provocatively. It taunted me, testing my already fragile self-control. I began a series of self-justifications, citing my interest as merely a casual inquiry into the life of an old friend. The lame rationalization made me snort into the darkness, trying to ignore the way my laptop beckoned to me from the desk across the room. I wanted . . . no, I needed . . .

Yeah, I needed something all right and, like a phantom limb long ago lost, I could nearly feel Edward's erection against my leg. I shook off the sensation – I was clearly losing my mind – and, unbidden, his words reverberated in my ears: "Are you sure about this, Bella?"

The distant roar of the ocean had echoed in my ears, and he kissed me, soft and slow. His lips had tasted briny.

"Yes. Ab-so-fucking-lutely." I cringed, remembering that response. I'd been so young.

"Good." Edward's hands had raked through my hair as I fought with the fly of his jeans in the darkness. I'd wanted him then, and sadly, after everything that happened back then, he still lit my body up now, even with that display of douchebaggery I witnessed on the television.

He'd moaned when my hand slipped into his boxers and touched him. Then his hands had been everywhere, sliding my underwear down my legs and leaving me bare.

"Now."

Yeah, now. I pinched my leg and leaned back in my chair. Stupid.

No. No googling….

_What does it matter, anyway?_ _He's not really an ex_, an inner voice said. _He kind of is_, said another. _An ex-fuck, at least. You deserve to know._ The latter voice was very high-pitched, girly, and insistent. The other one sounded more like me doing an impression of my dad. A retired army sergeant, Charlie Swan was a no-nonsense, practical man and a strict disciplinarian. _No good will come of this curiosity_, the Dad voice said. _But we're dying to know! _The other voice started to sound more like my mom, Renee: high-spirited, self-indulgent, and whiney. Oh great, now my parents were arguing in my head. Just like real life. _Hello, Freud._

I took a final drag of the cigarette, grimaced, and stubbed it out, vowing it was the last I would ever smoke. Just for good measure, I threw the rest of the pack in the trash. PV mewed softly in approval.

As I brushed my teeth, I gave myself a mental pep talk. Next week I wouldn't watch the dumb show. I hadn't seen him in six years and had barely thought of him in all that time until today. Well, you know, except for my daily interactions with PV. Seeing the show shocked me, but I'd recover quickly. It had only been a casual affair, anyway; since then, I'd had plenty of those. Edward had just been the first in a long line of dead-end relationships.

This latest thing with Felix—I could make it work. I should try harder to make it work.

The buzzing of my phone drew me back to the present. I finished wriggling into my tight black tank top and pushed the buttons to bring up Emmett's reply.

_See you in fifteen. _

Grabbing my mat and towel, I headed to the kitchen and filled my travel mug with coffee.

"Later, kitty," I called. PV glanced over at me from her position on the couch and flicked her ear dismissively.

"Try not to miss me," I muttered dryly.

Outside the sky peeked grey and threatening from between the trees and above the buildings. I sipped tentatively at my coffee, trying not to burn myself as I made my way down Horatio Street with only minutes to spare. My phone buzzed again, showing a text from Felix.

_Hey. Have to work all day, I'm afraid. Maybe dinner on Wednesday?_

I sighed with irritation and restowed my phone in my gym bag, not bothering to text back. I'd just told him the night before I had a big event on Wednesday at the Met. Obviously he hadn't been listening.

Felix had saved my ass last year at a wedding job by rescuing the misshapen seahorse ice sculpture carved by the bride's brother. I'd only bumped that ugly thing a tiny bit, and it took a nose dive into the best man's waiting arms, thank god. After giving his toast, Felix suggested a date would be the perfect way to repay him, flashing me that little boy smile of his.

As a former college linebacker, Felix's hulking physique initially intimidated me, although it had been the catalyst for getting to know him in the first place. But soon he proved himself to be sweet, if a bit dull at times. We enjoyed each other's company . . . when we had the time. But lately things had gotten more and more strained.

I was twenty-eight years old, and I didn't think I'd ever really been in love.

"Hey! Hot ass!" a female voice called from behind me. I turned, surprised to see Rosalie walking with Emmett, her yoga bag slung over her shoulder.

I stalled on the sidewalk to wait for them, rolling my eyes at the tiny spandex shorts hugging Emmett's impressive-looking package. Contrasted with his massive, hairy thighs, the effect was disturbing, yet comical.

"Hi! I didn't know you were coming," I said to Rose as they approached. Emmett grinned and threw his arm around Rose's shoulders.

"I made her an offer she couldn't refuse."

"Latte?"

"Bloody Marys," Rose corrected. I looked at her, confused.

"We're heading to Oro after this," Emmett said.

"Thanks for telling me. I don't have any clothes." I wrinkled my nose as they stepped into line beside me. The three of us continued down the street, a gang of spandex clad weekend warriors.

Rose pinched my butt. "Just wear your sweats."

"Fine," I yelped, batting her hand away. At least I brought those along. After an hour and a half of doing standing poses in a hundred degree room, a shower and a change of clothes was essential.

The two of them chatted about their Saturday nights and I kept my mouth shut, smiling at their back and forth banter. Who knew ten years ago Rose and I would still be friends today?

On move-in day at NYU, Dad and I got lost on our way into the city, and by the time we'd arrived at the dorm and unloaded the truck I was sweaty, disheveled, and cranky. When Rose and her parents had entered the room a couple of hours later, I noticed her father had the whitest teeth I'd ever seen, and both of the women looked like movie stars. I had instantly felt inferior, cursing the horrible college administrator who'd deigned to place me, Bella Swan—plain, short, cynical brunette—in the same room as Barbie.

Thankfully, the first words out of Rosalie's mouth, "Hey, you must be Bella. Are you ready to fuck shit up?" immediately put a dent in my judgmental attitude and made me feel kind of like an asshole. Later that evening, when Rosalie stole the clothes from the guys' communal shower, I knew I'd found my soul mate. If only I liked vagina.

"So what'd you do last night, girlfriend? Did you ride the meat pony?"

Emmett's comment sent coffee through my nasal passages.

"No. Felix . . ." I sighed. "He had to work today, so I didn't end up going over. I just stayed in and watched TV, which is fine. I needed my beauty rest."

"Anything good?" Emmett asked.

"I'm fresh out of porn and dinner was crap."

Rose and Emmett laughed. I held the sharp reply back, letting it dissolve on my tongue.

"You better watch out," Rose said, nearly hip-checking me into a skinny chick chattering on her phone. I righted myself and shoved her back. "You're going to end up a crazy cat woman. I already know you talk to that thing when no one's around."

"PV is not a_ thing_. And I don't talk to her." I thought for a second. "Much."

"Ladies, ladies," Emmett said, wagging his finger. "Play nice." Then he paused.

"Were you watching that show with that chef from England? I caught a bit of it before I went out. Hot. A bit of a wankah, though." Emmett broke out his worst English accent.

"Uh . . ." I said, wondering why God hated me. Was Emmett psychic or something? "No. I didn't catch it."

"What show?" Rose asked while I willed them to drop the subject. Unfortunately, my mind influencing powers didn't seem to be working.

"_America's Hottest Chef._ This guy from England has eight home cooks to train in eight weeks. After that, he kicks one of them off every episode. The winner gets fifty grand and an opportunity to work at his restaurant in New York."

I almost crapped my pants. _New York?_ How had I missed that?

Neither of them seemed to notice my reaction. Rose scoffed, tossing her blonde ponytail. "Sounds stupid. Can't these people come up with an original premise for once? I'm so sick of these British chef shows."

"It does sound derivative," I confirmed, finally collecting myself. "Really, really stupid. Completely useless."

"Yeah. I mean, Bella, you and I should have a show. At least we're good looking. It'd give the audience a reason to watch."

"That's one thing the guy has going for him," Emmett said. "He isn't my type, but I wouldn't kick him out of bed."

Gross. The thought of Emmett and Edward . . . just . . . actually, not bad. I eyed my friend's meaty thighs and imagined them sandwiching Edward's face. I'd pay to see that.

She grabbed my coffee and took a loud slurp. "What's his name again?"

The panic rose hotly, expanding from stomach to chest to throat. Emmett never knew about my summer fling . . . but Rose did.

I held my breath.

"I don't know. Edward something. He's British," Emmett said.

"Hmm," Rose answered dismissively.

"Hmm," I echoed, trying to calm myself. _Why should I get so worked up about an idiot?_ Who cared if Rose and Emmett knew that Edward was _Edward_? I did, for some reason. I hated that his success stung.

We reached our destination without further discussion, just in time for the start of class. I set up my mat at the back of the room, trying to spare as many people as possible from seeing my sweaty ass. The sequence began and I threw myself into it in an attempt to clear my mind, breathing the sweltering, sticky air into my lungs. It smelled like a monkey's armpit in the room, and I tried not to stare at the blubberous behind of the woman next to Emmett as she contorted her body into unnatural positions. I soon found myself drifting, thinking back to the first time I heard Edward's name. A very hot day—_probably as hot and humid as this damn yoga room_.

The summer between college and business school, Rosalie and her parents had invited me to stay in their beach house on the Outer Banks. She'd hoped to introduce me to her twin brother, Jasper, but he'd recently met someone—the girl who would eventually become his wife.

Secretly, I'd been kind of relieved Jasper was seeing Alice. For one thing, it took the pressure off and allowed me some much-needed relaxation time. My senior year had been hellish—I'd had a part-time internship with one of the most prestigious catering businesses in New York that, coupled with my coursework and grad school applications, ate up most of my time.

And, though I tried to come across as confident, I'd never been as comfortable around guys as Rosalie is. The whole college dating scene had been bizarre. You either had a drunken one-night stand or settled down into an exclusive relationship—neither of which seemed terribly appealing to me. I'd been looking for that elusive middle ground, which, according to Rose, no longer existed. People didn't date anymore: they fucked or got married. She exaggerated, of course, because there had to be some sort of path between the two – at least I thought so at the time. And she must have known it as well since she never tired of trying to hook me up.

I breathed in a lungful of scorching air, fighting not to cough it up and fall out of Eagle pose, the sweat already dripping down my forehead and into my eyes. Emmett's arms and legs twisted in front of me, and Rosalie panted to my right. Thank god she'd laid off after that summer at her parents' vacation house – I'd been beginning to feel like a prized calf she wanted to auction off.

On that day, Rosalie and I had spent the day lounging on the beach as I desperately tried to avoid the advances of her younger brother Royce who seemed to think we were the perfect match, even though he was only thirteen. In order to get rid of him, Rosalie suggested a walk.

The sand on the Outer Banks beaches allegedly had ass-firmly qualities, according to Rosalie, but she didn't warn me she'd wanted to hike from one end of North Carolina to the other.

"Too bad Jasper brought that hippie," she'd said with a sigh.

Jesus Christ, it felt like the sun was beating a hole through the top of my head. I hadn't even put on sunscreen – I'd been sure I'd wind up with a sunburnt scalp and spend the rest of my vacation fighting a raging case of dandruff.

"It's fine," I'd huffed, digging my feet into the sand with every step to avoid burning the shit out of my skin. "I will survive."

Rose had kept blabbing about the sad, sad state of my neglected vagina, but I'd started to fantasize about ice water and scantily-clad men feeding me grapes in an attempt to ignore the strain in my ass and thighs and the fuzziness clouding my brain.

_Hmm . . . what would their names be? Mitch and Chad. No! Not Chad! That's a terrible name. Oh, and Mitch sounded like a trucker. I guess truckers can be hot . . . but Chad is a guy that lives in his parents' basement and plays video games for so long he dies of dehydration. Neither of them belonged in my fantasy. Crap, but there they were, waving at me from Chad's parents' couch. Mitch, the kind of hot trucker from Biloxi, and his buddy Chad, the socially awkward gamer. _

My throat had felt like someone had rubbed it raw with a scouring pad, and I'd wanted water.

"Keep your eyes focused," Kyle, our enthusiastic yoga teacher, instructed. I tried not to focus on my burning thirst, glancing down at the water bottle at the edge of my mat as I grasped my ankle tighter, determined not to reach for it until I successfully held Standing Bow Pose for twenty seconds. I latched my eyes onto the mirror in front of me, but even so, I heard Edward's voice.

"Excuse me? Are you all right?" Yes, those had been his first words to me. I barely remembered them, though – then and now. I'd heard a voice . . . but it didn't sound like Mitch or Chad, my fantasy cabana boys. It'd been a pretty voice, an accented one: very soothing.

Without consciously deciding to do so, I sat and listened, surprised my subconscious had conjured up something so nice.

"Um . . . hello," the voice had said again. "Who is Chad?"

"Bella, what the fuck are you doing?" Rosalie's voice, neither pretty nor soothing, had grated against the fugue in my brain.

I'd finally glanced around. I sat on a towel—not mine—sweat pooling in my ass. Little tiny dots swam in front of my eyes but spirited away before I could focus on them.

"I think she needs some water," said the pretty voice. "Here. Bella, is it?" I'd nodded dumbly, accepting whatever pretty voice planned to put into my hand. For just a second I'd hoped it was his cock.

It turned out to be a bottle of water. Phallic shaped was good enough for me. I took a sip and then a larger gulp, feeling it chill my throat. Delicious.

"Bella?" Rosalie hissed from the side. I turned my head feebly, noticing that while she stood preparing for the second bow pose of the sequence, I lay flat on my mat. "What are you doing?"

"Hot. Dizzy. Nauseous." I clutched my water bottle, still hearing Edward's voice in my head.

"Oh, shit," Emmett said. Sweat streaked down his furry, shirtless chest, making him look like a wet gorilla. Both of them moved to bend over me, and I gamely accepted the drops of sweat that fell from their bodies, too tired to move. I did manage to wrinkle my nose in disgust, though.

Soon Kyle moved into my peripheral vision, looking irritated.

"Try not to break the flow," he chirped. "Let her rest if she needs to."

I gave him my best supine, withering stare.

Emmett had a crush on Kyle and so immediately fell in line, but Rosalie grabbed my hand and helped me up and out of the room.

"What's going on with you?" she asked as we emerged into the cool locker room. I breathed deeply, letting my lungs fill with clean, fresh air that didn't smell like body odor. I sank gratefully onto the bench lining the wall.

"I didn't sleep well. I probably only got three or four hours."

She sat down next to me, undoing her ponytail to free her sweaty hair. "No wonder you got dizzy."

"Yeah. Maybe I shouldn't have come."

"Whatever, class is almost over. Let's hit the showers and wait for Emmett."

I agreed, draining the rest of my water with a flourish. It had already started to make me feel better.

As I stood under the cool spray and washed the stank off my body, I vowed to regain control of my subconscious, declaring war on all thoughts about, feelings for, and memories of Edward Cullen.

_It's just you and me, brain. And I'm not going down without a fight. _

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><p><strong>AN: Tuesday, Wednesday, whatever! Thank you for the amazing response to the first chapter! I treasure each and every one of your reviews, so please let me know what you think.  
><strong>

**And yes, I know we all want to meet Chefward in the flesh, but just give me a little warm up time. I promise you'll get your fill ;-) **

**Thanks to Branson for starting the Twilighted forum for this story! Check it out, if you haven't yet. Starting next week, that's where I'll be posting teasers. **

**http:/www(dot)twilighted(dot)net/forum/viewtopic(dot)php?f=44&t=16554&sid=**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: SM owns it all . . . I just make her characters buy sex toys.**

**A/N: Thanks to the awesome Mac214 for her suggestions and for making my story shiny and pretty, and to Ms. Junkowski and DiamondHeart78, who preread this chapter. xox**

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><p><strong>Chapter Three: That Sonofa*&amp;%^#!<strong>

The next week and a half passed by in a blur of May wedding events and end of season cast parties. We catered a fundraising dinner on the rooftop of the Met on Wednesday, which turned out to be a smashing success except for when Alec, one of my new wait staff, tripped over his own feet in the kitchen and sent an entire tray of crème brulee skittering across the floor. Luckily, I'd learned my lesson in previous years and had prepared extra desserts. The poor kid blubbered and shook as he tried to clean up the broken ramekins and custard, but I assured him one such incident wasn't enough for me to fire him. He nodded and looked so relieved I felt a little pang in my chest. I knew how hard it could be to make it in New York.

"When is that boy going to come out of the closet?" Emmett had asked after Alec rushed away with a fresh tray.

"Is he gay?"

Emmett whistled and started massaging my shoulders, his strong fingers working my coiled muscles. "Your gaydar is out of whack, woman. Think about it. He's from Nebraska, just moved to New York to dance on Broadway, and in his off time wears the tightest purple pants I've ever seen on a man. And believe me, I know from tight pants. You be the judge."

"If he's a dancer, he shouldn't be so damn clumsy," I grumbled, pushing open the swinging door to peek at the soirée. The guests, most of them New York blue bloods and business tycoons, appeared to be having a good time, laughing and talking against the brilliant backlight of the Manhattan skyline.

"Oh, and I saw him at Tango a few weeks ago."

"Gross. Emmett, you really shouldn't be going to sex clubs."

"I look; I don't touch," he assured me. "But you should come out with me sometime. We could even go to a," he shuddered, "straight bar. You should _come." _He emphasized the word and gave my neck a final squeeze. I batted his hands away, trying not to think about how distant Felix had been.

"I have a boyfriend, and even if I didn't, the kind of man I want isn't the kind you find in a bar or humping someone against a dirty bathroom wall."

"Why not?" Emmett asked cheekily.

I turned toward the kitchen and surveyed the clutter. Mike and Laurent were busy cleaning and packing up, since service would soon be ending. A drop of sweat rolled down my neck, and the second it dripped below the collar of my chef whites, it took me right back to the beach-to the first time I'd seen the douchebag, er, Edward.

There I'd been, sitting on a strange man's towel with my friend Rosalie towering over me like an Amazonian beauty queen. She'd flashed the man behind me a smile, showing all her teeth, and then gave me a pointed look, as if to say, this guy is fucking hot. Don't fuck it up.

He'd said something else in that smooth, pretty voice and I almost swooned. PV. I'd call him PV for short.

Finally, I'd gotten the courage to turn my head.

And when I did, I almost vomited, my usual habit when nervous. PV had pretty eyes: startling green, like seaweed salad, or a cartoon dragon. An angular, clean-shaven jaw and full, delicious looking lips that quirked into a smirk. I'd stared at the lips until well past social acceptability.

"Hi," said the lips.

"You have a pretty voice."

PV had run his hand through his hair and cough-laughed, and I'd known I should be embarrassed about the random things coming out of my mouth, but the gesture had drawn my attention to his long fingers and his shiny, messy hair. He appeared to be kind of a ginger, not usually my thing. But hey, I could make an exception, I'd thought.

"Thank you," he'd replied finally, his eyes returning to mine. He hadn't seemed embarrassed at all; in fact, he'd seemed pleased.

"What are you, like, British or something?" I'd asked stupidly.

God, thinking back to it made me cringe. The fact that Edward spoke to me at all after that was nothing short of a miracle.

Emmett's continued yammering about what he saw as my failing relationship pulled me out of my head.

"—some kind of perverted guy wearing assless chaps. But when's the last time you saw the man?"

I shook my head, trying to figure out when assless chaps had entered the conversation. Emmett hated when I zoned out, so I tried to recover quickly. "Fuck. I know. I know. I'm going to Brooklyn this weekend. I'm spending both nights."

Felix didn't know this yet, but I planned to call him right away.

"But Saturday is Rose's birthday." Emmett appraised me, his eyes widening like I had three heads. I had become the worst friend monster.

"Shit!" I exclaimed, way too loudly. A few of the guests glanced over to where we stood, and I quickly retreated back into the kitchen, letting the door swing close with a whoosh. "I'm such an ass. I totally forgot."

"I know," Emmett said, obviously still irritated with me. "That's why I made the plan."

"What're we doing?"

"Well, first off, it's girls night at Babeland, and you know how our darling loves her battery-operated friends . . ." Emmett described the rest of his plans for the night, which included dinner and a show at Lucky Lu's, a cheesy, overpriced drag cabaret-Rose's favorite.

I nodded and agreed with everything all the while trying to figure out how in the world to get Felix to come along. Cross-dressing didn't really seem like his thing, unfortunately. But maybe he'd appreciate the ubiquitous banana-blowjob competition; Rose and I got a standing ovation for double-teaming the yellow fruit onstage on the drunken, debauched night of my 21st birthday.

Weren't we getting a little old for this?

But hey, at least I had plans for Saturday night. Now I could resist the temptation of watching _America's Hottest Chef._

_Excellent. _Dad-voice returned, sounding pleased.

_Noooo!_ came Mom-voice's screeching rejoinder.

_Oh! You'd been planning on watching all along, hadn't you?_ Dad-voice accused.

_Yes! We want to watch! We were lying to ourselves! _Crap. Mom-voice was totally on to me.

The fact that my parents had begun arguing in my head, just as they'd done in real life before the divorce, disturbed me. I guess they really had fucked me up. Too bad I stopped going to therapy.

Well, no matter. No _America's Hottest Chef_ for me. Mom-voice sniffled and Dad-voice laughed triumphantly. Not for the first time that week, I wondered if I was losing my mind.

**^_^ AAT ^_^**

Sunday morning I awoke with a start. I couldn't breathe and something tickled my nose.

"Ugh, get your ass away from my face," I groaned, shoving PV off my chest. She mewled in protest and hopped off the bed. A big lump shifted next to me. Felix.

Memories from the night before came flooding back. I cringed and flung my arm over my eyes.

Rose on the stage at Lucky Lu's getting a lap dance from a queen named Stella.

Emmett and I making perverted gestures at each other, singing a horrible rendition of "I Would Do Anything For Love, But I Won't Do That" at a karaoke bar in Chinatown as Felix looked on, scowling.

Demetri trying to teach me a weird Greek dance on the sidewalk outside the bar. Rose standing in a hooker-pose to hail us a cab.

And a fight. Oooh. A big one.

It had started in a cab on the way back to my apartment. Felix had been quiet all night, watching me with my friends but not really participating. He'd gotten irritated early in the evening when I showed him the new sex toy I'd bought at Babeland—a remote control operated egg thing that was supposed to prolong orgasm. The very educated, very professional women working there told me so. I thought it was neat—so many different settings! But Felix was less impressed, even when I informed him that Babeland was the Nordstrom of sex shops.

He'd eyed the package with distaste and a flicker of something else . . . jealousy? He was jealous of a sex toy?

Felix didn't lack anything in the size department, so why the hell did he care if I bought a freaking remote-control cooter egg? It bothered me, but I let it go.

But then in the cab, he'd said something that really pissed me off.

"You're different with your friends than you are when you're with me."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. It's like you're putting on a show or something with them. You act crazy."

"I act WHAT?" The cabbie glanced in the rearview nervously.

"Just . . . I don't know, Bella. But it's like I don't even know who you are when you're with them. I feel left out."

"You don't try to join in," I objected, still trying to wrap my mind around the fact he'd just called me crazy.

"I do. You don't give me a chance."

His words stung because they were partially true. But how dare he accuse me of putting on a show, of being someone I wasn't? Jesus, couldn't he let me have a little fun for once?

Somewhere in my foggy brain I knew that in our drunk and tired states, we shouldn't be arguing, but once the train left the station, it sped on without a conductor. Soon we'd spilled out of the cab and onto the sidewalk, shooting barbs at one another. He didn't like the way I dressed when I went out. I didn't like how he patronized me. I didn't show him enough affection. He didn't take an interest in my work. On and on and on.

Finally, after we suitably exhausted ourselves, we'd fallen asleep around five. I glanced at the alarm clock to my right. It was only eight now. I shifted slightly, not wanting to wake him but not wanting to stay in bed, either. A sigh from under the covers told me he was already conscious.

"Hey," I said, propping myself up on my arm. Felix turned over and yawned, rubbing his face tiredly. I tried not to grimace at his morning breath. It smelled like he'd eaten a dead cat. Just to be on the safe side, I glanced around to locate PV. Oh right, she just had her ass in my face, and there she sat in the doorway watching us morosely. Thank God.

"Hi."

We stared at each other for a minute.

"About last night," I began.

Felix cut me off. "I should go."

He sat up and ferreted around for his clothes. I put my hand on his bicep, and he stilled.

"Wait," I said. "I think we need to talk about this."

"You said all you needed to say last night, Bella," he said, standing up and pulling on his shirt. I watched his broad chest disappear under the thin white polo. "I stifle you. I get it."

"Felix, we were drunk. It was a stupid fight."

"I need some time to think," he said, lacing one of his shoes. "But right now, I have to go."

A profound ambivalence settled over me as I watched him make his final preparations, reaching for the wallet he'd discarded on my dresser. I didn't want him to go. I did want him to go. I had no idea what I wanted.

Actually, I could go for some eggs. Hmm . . . and sausage. Tomato. A nice English breakfast.

_Oh no, no English breakfasts. _

He left my apartment without another word.

I decided to skip yoga. Instead, I made myself a self-indulgent play list of depressing songs, grabbed a book, and took an uptown bus to Central Park—the only place in the city that seemed big enough for my thoughts.

The bus rolled and lurched up 8th Ave, and I let the breeze from the open window ruffle my hair. Though the subway couldn't be beaten for efficient public transit, I'd always preferred the bus. Something about being underground made me uneasy, especially when I already felt low. I leaned back on the seat and closed my eyes, barely able to hear over my iPod as people got on and disembarked. Suddenly my nostrils detected traces of leather and soap in the air. I opened my eyes. A thin, middle-aged man with a graying moustache sat next to me, a stranger who reminded me of my dad. I smiled, but he didn't return it.

Some of the things Felix had said to me weren't exactly unfamiliar accusations. Other men had charged me with being distant and too wrapped up in my work before. No matter how enlightened they seemed, my dedication to my career unnerved them. I fancied myself a strong, independent career woman, comfortable in my sexuality and with my life. And yes, my work meant the world to me. But . . . something just didn't seem to be working.

When I was growing up, we'd moved around a lot. Since my dad was in the military, we'd lived in Texas, Kentucky, Maine, and Arizona before finally settling in Washington State when my dad retired, a little town just to the south of Spokane called Cheney. As an army kid, I knew what it was like to get attached – to people, to places – and then have to move on. I didn't always like it, but I got used to it. My mother, on the other hand, never did. It was one of the reasons why they divorced. She never got over all those years of rootlessness, even after we finally picked someplace and stayed.

That was where I learned to cook—in the mess halls of army bases. When we moved to Fort Worth, I was ten years old, unruly and in need of discipline, so my father said. Though he was an officer and we lived off base, I had a friend whose mother worked in the kitchens feeding the enlisted men. I spent a lot of time with Leah and her mother Sue, watching in rapt fascination as Sue took simple ingredients and made them into something edible . . . usually, though not always, delicious.

The day we left Fort Worth to move to Maine, I cried. It was the one place I still really missed.

The bus lurched again to a stop, and an old man wearing a yarmulke limped up the steps. Noticing no other seats were available, I stood and let him have mine. He thanked me in a thick Eastern European accent and I nodded, grabbing hold of one of the silver poles in the center of the aisle and doing my damnedest not to keel over when the bus picked up speed.

When my mom left my dad, I'd been a junior in high school. She'd asked me to come with her, but my father needed me. He was older than her by fifteen years and recently retired—he'd never had to take care of himself. It hurt to say goodbye to my mom, but I didn't cry that day. Neither did Dad. I wondered if he'd always expected her to leave.

More people boarded the bus, crowding the aisle. Looking for a place to rest that wouldn't lead to unnecessarily weird eye contact, my gaze settled on the advertisements lining the opposite walls.

Learn Spanish. HIV protection and family planning. Yoga and pilates classes at a bargain price.

Then my eyes nearly bugged out of my head.

**Get Royally Schooled. Saturdays at 9. Only on the Food Network. **

What the hell was wrong with this show's advertising campaign? Edward was in no way, shape, or form related to the royal family. I should know: I once stupidly asked him.

"Why yes," he'd said, "I'm eight millionth in line for the throne." Then he'd smiled adorably.

The bastard was far too attractive to be inbred.

Under the bold Helvetica catchphrase, Edward glared down at me, his eyebrows furrowed in a stern but sexy manner. As always, I found myself mesmerized by his brilliant green eyes. I swallowed deeply, trying not to let myself be affected by a stupid, probably photoshopped, picture of a stupid man.

He'd never promised me anything.

I could almost taste the delicious steak kabobs he'd brought over to Rosalie's house the evening of the day we'd met.

"These are fabulous," I'd said, busily licking my fingers to remove all traces of the food. Edward and I had been sitting at a bit of a distance from the others—Jasper, Alice, and Rose. The five of us had been drinking, and I'd developed a substantial beer buzz. I'd always been somewhat of a lightweight.

Edward's face had taken on a curious expression as he murmured something about being happy I'd liked the dinner. Only after a minute did I realize he was staring at my mouth. I was basically molesting my finger with my tongue.

I'd blushed at the attention, searching for a way to segue the conversation by doing what I'd always done: putting my foot in my mouth.

"Where did you learn to cook? Isn't British food supposed to be horrible?"

I shook my head, scoffing inwardly at the memory of that early version of myself. I certainly hadn't been prepared for Edward Cullen, even though he'd warned me he was leaving for culinary school in Paris the following week.

Finally, we arrived at the southeast corner of the Park, and I clambered off the bus, not giving his snarky grin another glance. Chris Martin's beseeching croon filled my ears as I walked briskly, letting the warm sun heat muscles that dancing had made sore.

A couple of years after college, after both Rose and Emmett had accused me of not being emotionally available as far as dating goes, I'd finally decided to see a shrink. I'd only gone a couple of times, stopping when the therapist, Gail, told me that I was intentionally seeking out dead-end relationships as some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy or sabotaging them to avoid being hurt.

I'd told her I wasn't that cliché, but she'd said, "Yes, you are."

After that, I decided therapy wasn't for me, and that Gail was the Antichrist.

But now, as I began the loop I always took around the southern end of the park, I wondered if she'd had a point. My steps faltered.

It was one thing to maybe have a hint of the problem. It was another thing to do something about it.

Without another thought, I stopped mid-stride, turned, and headed to the periphery of the park to hail a cab.

Felix's Brooklyn neighborhood was quaint, but I secretly thought the people living in the area a little douchey. Most of them had jobs in the city and waxed lyrical about the charms and beauty of their borough over the increasingly homogenized, characterless Manhattan 'hoods. It seemed a little hypocritical to me, this hipster utopia where rich people pretended to be avant-garde. The Starbucks on the corner of Felix's street seemed to confirm that very pretension. I preferred Queens any day of the week.

"Right here," I told the driver. He pulled up in front of Felix's brownstone, and I gave him a twenty and change, hopping out of the cab, pulling the buds out of my ears, and taking a deep breath.

I took the stairs two-by-two and rang the doorbell, not sure if I should use my key, given our current status. Nothing. A couple seconds went by and I rang again. Still nothing. He was probably asleep, I figured, since we'd had such a late night. The bell ringing from his second-story bedroom was barely audible.

Deciding to chance it, I unlocked the door and glanced around the apartment.

"Felix?" I called out hesitantly. He was definitely either out or sleeping.

I slid my bag off my shoulder and made my way up the stairs, trying to figure out what to say to him. Obviously I should apologize. Right? Half of my brain agreed, and the other half still thought maybe he owed me one—but I'd come here to make things right. I could take the high road.

At the top of the stairs, my Spidey sense warned me something was off. Felix's door was ajar and the light was off, but I heard voices.

I stepped closer. The voices turned into moans.

Holy shit. My heart started hammering, and my hands clammily gripped the doorknob, my ears trained on every creak of the bed and sound. A girl's laughter wafted out of the room, followed by Felix's deep, mellow voice, and anger bubbled up hotly in my chest. My decision made, I swung open the door.

I recognized her immediately. She faced away from me as she rode him, dirty blonde hair spilling over her back.

_Heidi._

Felix's head was thrown back in pleasure, his hands anchoring her hips_. I can't fucking believe this. It's like a goddamn movie._

Not knowing what else to do, I cleared my throat.

"Bella," Felix said incredulously as we locked eyes. His expression turned panicked as he shoved Heidi to the side. I saw her boobs bounce and her head whip around. A flurry of limbs, blankets, and clothes commenced, but I didn't stay to find out what happened next.

Tears of humiliation burned hotly in my eyes. I wiped them away angrily as I flew back down the steps toward the front door.

I wouldn't let him make a fool of me.

"Bella!" he called from the top of the stairs.

I would have ignored him right then and there if he hadn't said the next, stupid words.

"It's not what you think."

"Oh, no you didn't!" I whipped around, seething.

"I thought we were on a break," he argued, still buttoning his pants as he stumbled forward.

"On a break? On a fucking break? You just left two hours ago!"

"Yeah. I . . ." He looked at me blankly, and for the first time ever I realized that for the past year, I'd been dating a complete and utter moron.

"You're an idiot," I told him. "Your secretary? Oh, that's classic. No wonder you've had to work so much lately. It must be a lot of work, getting your dick wet like an asshole!"

"Uh . . ." He said something else, but I had already closed my ears.

"This," I said, gesturing between us. "This is done."

I grabbed my bag and slung it over my shoulder, slamming the door behind me.

I was finished with men for good.

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><p><strong>AN: Still with me? I PROMISE Edward will be coming soon. There is a method to my madness. Heh heh. As of now, what do you think? I'd love to hear your opinions on Felix's . . .extracurriculars.**

**xox**

**M**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns it all, I'm just playing around here. Thank you to the lovely and hilarious Mac214 for betaing and my ruling triumvirate of prereaders: Ms. Junkowski, DiamondHeart78, and BellaFlan. xox**

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><p><strong>Chapter Four: Did I Do That?<strong>

"_I don't want to leave." _

_Edward's arms made me feel safe, but his words reminded me of the transience of this moment. In just another day, he'd be gone. _

"_Don't go without saying goodbye," I whispered. _

"_I won't. I promise." He kissed my neck and I sighed, closing my eyes and leaning against him. His hands moved up my body and cupped my breasts, setting my skin ablaze. _How can I stop myself from feeling more than I'm supposed to?_ A voice in the back of my mind whispered that maybe . . . just maybe . . . it didn't have to end. I started to fantasize about visiting Edward in Paris . . . I'd always wanted to see the Seine. _

_Our lips found each other, and I moaned as his skilled tongue entered my mouth. He was hard again between my thighs. _

_I sighed his name. Edward. _

"_Who's Edward?" An angry face lifted to mine . . . gah! It was Felix. I pushed him off me, scrambling to cover myself while the room pulsated in blackness. I could hear words, but they weren't coming from either of us—they seemed to be bleeding in from the walls. _

_Felix's head got larger, his grimace angrier . . . it became a balloony cartoon face with huge, bulging eyes. _

_Bella?_

"Bella?"

"What!" I bolted upright in my chair, knocking over a cup of coffee. It spread quickly, making a dash for the contracts I'd been working on. "Shit!" I cursed as I frantically sought something to clean the mess.

"Hang on, I got it!" Emmett shooed me aside, moving the papers and paper-toweling my desk with studied efficiency. I sank back down into my chair, feeling useless and grateful as the remnants of my troubling dream faded away.

Once he had everything under control, Emmett drew up a chair.

"This is the second time I've found you asleep in here since Monday. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I said, avoiding his sharp eyes. "I guess I'm just tired." Almost a week had gone by since the sextastrophe, and I still hadn't told him or Rose. I was only prolonging the inevitable, but I just hadn't felt like talking about it. While I hadn't been in love with Felix, something about his betrayal unnerved me, making me feel completely undesirable and confirming that I sucked at relationships. Maybe if I hadn't kept Felix at arm's length, this wouldn't have happened.

To make things worse, I couldn't seem to escape Edward, his show, or the idiotic catchphrases that came with it. After that moment on the bus, Edward seemed to appear everywhere I looked: on commercials, on the subway, even on the cover of freaking _Entertainment Weekly_.

On Wednesday morning, I'd been in line at the drugstore to pick up my birth control prescription (not that I'd need the damn things anymore, but hey, maybe I would have sex again sometime before I became infertile) and there he was in his chef whites, smirking at me from the glossy magazine cover. The temptation to flip to the article struck me like a craving hits a meth addict. I'd only barely succeeded in getting out of there with my dignity intact. He was royal, all right: a royal pain in my ass.

"Tired. Hmm." Emmett leaned back in his chair, eyeing me seriously. He looked different.

"Did you get a haircut?" I asked in an attempt to change the subject.

"Yeah, a couple days ago." He ran his hand across his freshly cropped hair.

"I like it."

"Thanks. But don't think you're getting out of this so easy," he warned. "You never told me what happened with Felix last weekend. Are you guys still fighting?"

"No," I admitted with a sigh. "We're not. We're . . . nothing."

After I'd left Felix's apartment, I'd taken a cab straight back to my apartment and proceeded to throw out everything Felix had left at my place over the past year. It had seemed cathartic, but that sentiment soon faded when he'd called me . . . and called me . . . and called me. I hadn't answered, but I did listen to his messages. He wanted the chance to explain, but I didn't need any justifications. I'd have to be an idiot to think this thing with Heidi was new, and besides, I knew our relationship wasn't going anywhere.

Still, I felt like shit.

"Uh-oh," Emmett said, leaning forward. "Does that mean what I think it does?"

"If you think it means I walked in on the scumbag fucking his secretary, then yes."

"Holy crap." His eyes grew wide, brows traveling up his forehead.

"You're telling me."

As I related my disastrous trip to Brooklyn the previous weekend, Emmett's eyes narrowed. Then his lips went thin and his brow furrowed.

"You want me to kick his ass?"

I could just see Emmett pounding on Felix's apartment door. Despite Emmett's constant working out and massive biceps, I didn't think he'd ever been in a scuffle in his entire life . . . and Felix probably knew Em was a lover not a fighter. Knowing Emmett, it would probably devolve into him kicking Felix in the shins and running away.

"Fun as that would be, no. Thanks, though. I just need to wallow a little."

"Wallow away—but not for too long. The asshole isn't worth it - plus, now that you're single you'll make a great wing woman." He grinned, and I barked out a bitter laugh. "You should call Rose, by the way. She thinks you're avoiding her."

"The last time I played wing woman for you, you left me sitting at the bar with a drunk drag queen who felt me up. You're on your own. But I will call Rose."

I glanced at the clock, considering whether or not I'd have time to call her before we had to leave. Since most of the staff was out running a couple of larger events that day, I'd agreed to head up the skeleton crew for the mayor's wife's retirement party that afternoon. Just what I was in the mood for: pasting on a happy smile and pretending I wouldn't rather be holed up on the couch with a pint of ice cream.

"And call me later. I don't want you sitting alone in that apartment all weekend. You should come out tonight."

"We'll see, Emmett," I said, standing and stretching. He knew me too well.

Five hours later, I arrived at my apartment covered in dried Hollandaise sauce and cursing the day I'd hired Alec Winters. How he'd managed to douse such a wide surface area with just a bowlful of the stuff, I'd never know. Thank God it had been behind the scenes – if he'd pulled that crap on the floor, I would have fired him on the spot.

PV chirped at me, her tail swishing expectantly as I entered the door.

"Don't ask," I warned her. She approached cautiously, sniffing daintily at my shoes before giving them a lick. Apparently pleased, she smacked her chops, eyeing the prominent stains on my pants.

"There's a lot of butter and eggs in this stuff," I said, shooing her away. "And it's not for you."

She mewled plaintively, letting me know if she couldn't eat my clothes, she wanted her dinner. Or she'd munch on my face as I slept – I was half convinced she plotted my death when I left her alone in the apartment.

I needed to shower first before dealing with her putrid smelling cat food, though.

I took my time, letting the hot water course over my stressed muscles and trying to figure out how the day had gone so horribly wrong.

The midtown traffic had set us back twenty minutes, so when we arrived to the gigantic upper west side apartment where the mayor and his wife lived, we were already late. It was her party, but even so she had hung back in the kitchen until the guests began to arrive, infuriating me with her particular instructions. Once she'd finally gotten out of my hair, I realized the oven ran about 50 degrees hotter than it indicated, overcooking the filet mignons.

And then Alec slipped on something, sending an entire bowl of warm, creamy sauce all over my black uniform, as well as half the kitchen. It looked like a giant had blown his wad everywhere.

Needless to say, with the overcooked steaks and the spoogefest in the kitchen, we hadn't exactly made a stellar impression—which was unfortunate, since a lot of important people, potential clients, attended that party.

Fuck.

After toweling myself off, I pulled on my robe and padded into the kitchen, giving PV her dinner before rooting through my cabinets for alcohol—unfortunately, no wine readily presented itself. Too tired to even think about leaving my apartment again but needing a stiff drink like nobody's business, I sighed with relief when I discovered an unopened bottle of single malt a client had given me the previous Christmas.

"What?" I asked PV as she watched me struggle with the corked top. "I can drink scotch. No biggie."

She went back to eating, and I poured myself two fingers of the stuff. I sniffed, wrinkling my nose as the pungent alcohol invaded my nostrils, burning the hairs. Hard alcohol had never really been my thing, but I was desperate.

I took a tentative sip, grimaced, then retrieved a couple of ice cubes from the freezer and plopped them in the glass. Another taste. Better. The rush of warmth spread throughout my body, making me tingle all the way down to my toes.

PV meowed.

"What? You want to get stoned too?" I asked her, grabbing the pouch of catnip from the cupboard. She looked up and began turning around in circles, her cries getting louder. I sprinkled a bit on the food left in her bowl, and she attacked the stuff.

"You're an addict," I muttered, watching her writhe against the floor. "You really should get some help."

My cell rang on the counter, and I reached for it wearily, not wanting to deal with the call, especially if it was Felix. A glance at the caller ID made me hesitate.

_Number One Slut_ flashed on the screen, along with a picture of Rose blowing a kiss.

Emmett's words from before returned to me—I really should talk to Rose. He'd probably already filled her in anyway, since the two of them were attached at the hip lately. I should just bite the bullet and get the inquisition over with.

"Yellooo," I said, feeling a little loose from the scotch. No wonder people loved this stuff—already the cares of the day had begun drifting away.

"Bella, oh my fucking God." Her voice sounded panicked, excited.

"What? What?"

"Turn on your TV right now. Just do it."

"What? Why?" I sipped my scotch again.

"You're never going to freaking believe who's got his own show, B. I'm having a heart attack. Just turn on the Food Network."

A glance at the clock made my heart thump—oh, shit. My hands moved of their own accord, grabbing the remote and pressing the power button.

There he was, sitting in a room alone and speaking to the camera. The intensity of his expression made me curious. I turned up the volume, straining to hear his deep, smooth voice.

"—know if these contestants are serious. I'm beginning to have serious doubts about whether any of them belong in the kitchen, let alone one of mine." He raised his eyebrows skeptically, swiping the pad of his thumb against his bottom lip.

_I don't know if I can take this. _My sympathetic nervous system reacted immediately—fight or flight. Flight! Flight!

"Bella?" Rose's voice reminded me I was on the phone.

I cleared my throat. "Yeah."

"Um. You're not saying anything. You already knew, didn't you?"

"Uh . . . I'd kind of noticed it."

"You BITCH!" she shouted. I had to hold the phone away from my ear. "Why didn't you tell me? Edward freaking Cullen! What a blast from the past, right? It's a small goddamn world."

I took another sip of scotch, noticing I'd soon need a refill.

"I sorta had a lot of things on my mind."

"Yeah . . . oh my God, I'm so sorry. Emmett told me about Felix."

I sighed, not even irritated about Emmett's blabbing.

"Yeah, so you know the gruesome details."

"He didn't tell me everything, but I got the gist of it. Fuck, Bella. Are you okay?"

"I've been better." I glugged the rest of my scotch, feeling the fiery burn shoot down my esophagus.

"I hope he gets some sort of communicable disease and his balls shrivel up and fall off."

"Thanks. That means a lot," I said sincerely.

My eyes focused on the screen, which now showed the contestants. I'd missed last week's episode, but it was clear that alliances were being made. Zafrina and Garrett seemed awfully chummy, but as soon as Edward entered the kitchen, her eyes immediately latched onto him like a slutty monkey eyeing a banana. Could monkeys be slutty? He did have a nice banana . . . dammit!

I couldn't discern what they were learning this week. Something to do with fish? Edward looked impatient and imperious as usual, watching the contestants frantically scurry around.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really. But I do want to get some more scotch," I said, standing up at the commercial break. A rush of lightheadedness threatened to send me careening backward, but I shook it off.

"Scotch?" I could sense her confusion.

"There was no wine, and after today I needed a drink."

"Shit, what happened?" As I filled her in, I cradled the phone to my ear and beelined to the kitchen, pouring more scotch in my glass and retrieving a few more ice cubes. I wanted to get back to the TV . . . which was stupid. Rose protested and murmured support in all the right places; she rarely attended events, since she ran the business and advertising aspects of _La Vie en Rose_, but she knew how frustrating it could be when things went wrong.

I returned to my sofa and sank down just as the show returned. Edward was on again, this time talking with Siobhan. He didn't seem as angry with her—she was so incredibly awkward and clueless . . .

"I can't freaking believe this chick," Rose commented. I laughed and took another sip, now pleasantly buzzed . . . apparently the only way I could watch this show.

"I know, right?"

"Where do they find these people?"

"I have no idea. The circus, maybe? This one's been spending her time with too many lemurs."

Rose chuckled. "So, I know it's been a long time . . . but this must be weird. He still looks good."

"Yeah," I muttered. "But who knew he was such an asshole?"

"Well, he did leave without even saying goodbye to you."

"Don't remind me." Of course I had been reminded, every freaking day since I first saw his show, not to mention every morning I woke up to PV pawing at my shoulder. I hadn't meant anything to him . . . at all.

As Rose continued on about the useless contestants and Edward's douchebaggery, my mind drifted back to our beach romance. We'd spent the entire week together attached at the hip—and the crotch. Stupidly, I thought something had happened between us on the day before he left. The day he brought me PV. I knew so little about men then.

But I'd never forgotten the way the tiny kitten curled against his neck as he approached the beach house, his ruddy hair blowing in the warm breeze. I had been waiting on the porch for him, my emotions a swirl of excitement, hope, and sadness, and when he gently placed the kitten in my lap, I fell in love. With the kitten.

"Who is this?" I'd crooned, cradling the tiny orange furball. Even with all the movement, she was fast asleep.

Edward had found the kitten; apparently a stray cat had a litter in a nearby beach house shed, but a car had killed her. The owners of the house were giving the babies away, and this was the last one—the runt of the litter.

"If you don't want it, we can take her back," Edward had assured me in his pretty voice, running his hands through his hair nervously. "I just . . . thought of you. Because you might be lonely in your new flat. She could be a good pal. And you might . . . remember me." The words had come out in a stuttering rush, but they went straight to my heart.

What a stupid fool I'd been.

"I love her, Edward. Thank you." I had lifted the kitten and cuddled her against my neck. Her little paws started kneading my shoulder, tiny needle claws digging into my bare skin.

Edward sat down next to me and put his hand on my leg, rubbing lightly. "What will you call her?" The warmth of his touch made my chest constrict. Looking between the two of them, I noticed the resemblance—they were both gingers. The kitten made a tiny mewling sound, startling us both. Her voice sounded as pretty as Edward's.

"I think I'll name her PV."

Of course I never told him what the name stood for, fearful of outing my growing feelings. We'd agreed to keep things casual, after all. Later, I'd been relieved I'd at least spared myself that embarrassment because when I'd shown up at his beach house the next day, he'd already departed. His cell phone number disconnected. Gone without a trace.

Through the phone at my ear, Rose scoffed at something happening on the show. I shook my head, feeling foggy from the scotch that I'd been absent-mindedly drinking while lost in my thoughts.

"Did you tell PV her daddy was on TV?" Rose joked. I scoffed, even as the cat in question hopped up next to me and climbed into my lap.

"Ha ha," I laughed, scratching under PV's raised chin.

In pussy, there is truth. After Edward had left, Rose and I had gotten good and drunk on the beach one night. We both vowed that men were assholes and bemoaned the sorry reality that we'd both been born heterosexual.

"Bella," Rose had slurred, "I hate dick."

"Me too," I agreed emphatically. "Dick sucks."

Rose had clanged her glass against mine. "En Vino Veritas," she'd said.

I'd laughed. "More like in Pussy Veritas."

And thus PV's name had changed—yet stayed the same.

Clearly Rose's opinion of men had changed since then because a few minutes later she let me go; she was expecting Demetri. I tried not to feel a pang of jealousy—they seemed so good for each other. Would I ever have that?

Was I really incapable of having a serious relationship?

I poured another glass of scotch, despite the fact I really didn't need it. I'd already begun to feel quite drunk.

Edward came back on the screen, and now Zafrina was sidling up to him. He smiled tightly, going back to inspecting the poached fish she'd prepared. She bit her lip and thrust her chest forward. Gah.

"The Food Network is really going downhill," I told PV. "Look at that simpering biatch all over him. It's like the Real World with oven mitts. Any minute now someone is going to get naked and jump in the house pool."

Edward seemed pleased with the taste and texture of the fish. The corner of his mouth lifted into a smirk, and he nodded.

Zafrina clapped her hands in delight. This time when Edward met her eyes—I couldn't tell if it was a trick of the camera or not—but something seemed to flash between them. A flare of rage welled inside of me.

Her? Please. She was rocking double D's, for sure, but those things had to be fake. "So like a man," I muttered in disgust, furious with myself for watching the damn show. But I couldn't look away from the train wreck as it unfolded.

Edward dominated the screen, his cocky demeanor and assholery becoming more and more annoying. The contestants seemed to regard him as some sort of demi-god, with his dammed messy hair and flashing green eyes. Fucker.

"Who the hell does he think he is?" I yelled drunkenly, alarming PV and making her jump out of my lap. "That's your father, PV," I continued, "get a good look at the absentee douche."

I found myself booting up my laptop and finally doing that Google search, but the words blurred on screen. I closed my right eye and tried to focus with my left.

Edward Cullen. One gastropub in London called Mix—what a stupid name. Not married. I scanned the rest of the Wikipedia article, looking for more tidbits and feeling my rage grow.

Everything the man touched seemed to turn to gold. He'd graduated from one of Paris' top culinary institutes at the top of his class—his wealthy parents providing him with the capital to open his own restaurant. Then he won that stupid British chef show, and now here he was in New York. Love life—nothing unexpected. He'd dated models, actresses—none of the relationships lasting more than a few months.

I snorted with derision, scrolling down further. Pictures of Edward with his arms around different women, all of them tall, leggy, beautiful.

The guy clearly thought he was the bee's knees. _Do bees have knees?_

My gut churned, the scotch starting to wear on my stomach lining.

What I wouldn't give to take him down a peg or two.

A few searches later, I'd found Edward's agent's email address. Jane Starling—a tiny, ivory-skinned blonde woman with smart eyes. I wonder if he banged her, too.

I don't know what made me do it.

Later, I'd blame the alcohol.

_Dear Ms. Starling, _I typed.

_My name is Isabella Swan. I'm writing to get in touch with Edward Cullen. Six years ago, we had a brief relationship and then lost touch. But there is something very important that Edward needs to know. He has a daughter. _

I snickered, glancing over at PV.

"Should I really do this?" I asked her. She looked at me and flicked her tail impassively.

All of a sudden, a wave of dizziness swept over me, making my eyes cross and turning one PV into two. Definitely shouldn't have had that fourth glass of scotch.

Leaving my computer station, I stood on unsteady legs and made my way to my bedroom, hitting my shin on the coffee table and cursing at the pain that shot up my leg. My bed beckoned sweet bliss, and I sank into it, wondering why my apartment was suddenly spinning around like a carousel.

I didn't have to wonder long. When my eyes closed, I was lost to the world.

The next morning PV woke me up trying to nudge her way under the covers. My head throbbed painfully, and the nasty, cottony taste in my mouth told me I'd fallen asleep without brushing my teeth.

Scotch is the devil, I thought, clambering out of bed and padding my way toward the kitchen. On my way past my desk, I noticed my laptop was still open, the screen black. It came back to me in a rush—Edward, the show, the googling—the babydaddy email.

I can't believe I'd almost . . .

I fiddled with the track pad to wake up the screen, a wave of panic overcoming me when I noticed the email was no longer there. Had I deleted it?

A glance at my "sent mail" folder made me break out in a cold sweat, my hands shaking as the surge of adrenaline overwhelmed me.

_Message sent. _

PV rubbed against my legs and I glanced down . . . could the cat have pressed . . . could I have . . .

I couldn't remember!

And not only that . . .

In my inbox . . . there was a reply.

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><p><strong>AN: Whoopsie! Drunk emailing: never a good idea. Or is it? What do you think of Sir Douchnozzle now? I promise he'll make an appearance next chapter. Thank you for your patience with the build up. Let me know what you think! **

**Also, I'm co-hosting a fabulously inappropriate contest along with BellaFlan and Roselover24 called Spanking the Monkey. Yes, it's a wank contest. Check out the link on my profile-we'll be accepting entries through July 7th!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns it all, I'm just playing around here. Thank you to the lovely and hilarious Mac214 for betaing and my ruling triumvirate of prereaders: Ms. Junkowski, DiamondHeart78, and BellaFlan. **

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><p><strong>Chapter 5: What the Hell Was I Thinking?<strong>

_Dear Ms. Swan,_

_Thank you for your email. Mr. Cullen would like to meet with you privately to discuss your claims. He looks forward to meeting . ._ .

My eyes crossed as I read the rest of the email . . . tomorrow? He wanted to meet_ tomorrow? _

Holy shit.

I stared and stared, trying to quell the panic rising in my chest. I told myself shit like this didn't happen in real life, but there the email was, plain as dirt on a hobo. Mocking me in a haughty Helvetica.

It sounded so formal . . . but the strangest part was it sounded like the woman believed it! Why else would Edward want to meet so soon?

Through my horrible, pounding headache, I tried to reason my way out of the situation. I'd simply write back and tell her it was only a mistake. God, I was such a moron! How could I have let something like this happen? Could I really have accidentally pressed the send button in my drunken stupor?

Maybe I had a brain tumor or something pressing on my parietal lobe, making me do ridiculous things. I'd make a doctor's appointment immediately to get my head examined.

Just then, PV yowled up at me, her greenish-yellow eyes devious slits.

"Did you do this?" I demanded. She fell over onto her side and started giving herself a tongue bath, ignoring my question.

Dammit. Rose was right. I did talk to PV out loud—not only that, I expected her to answer. I really was a crazy cat woman. I hoped I really did have a tumor—then, at least there'd be something to blame.

Glancing back at the computer, my hand shook as I refreshed the screen. Whatever had happened, I couldn't deny it—the email from the publicist was still there, telling me to come by her midtown office to meet Edward the following day.

_Edward, about that email I sent. Yeah, well, I was talking about the cat you gave me. Funny joke, yes? _

No, there was no way I could do it. I'd have to come up with an excuse for my insane behavior and write back apologizing immediately. But what the hell could I say?

My pounding brain was nearing freak-out overload when my cell exploded in a cacophony of sound. I reached for it blindly and brought it to my ear.

"Hello?" I whispered.

"Hey, you up for yoga this morning?" Rose's voice was the calming anchor I needed.

"No. No yoga. Rose, shit. I did something so, SO stupid. You're never going to believe this."

"What happened?" Her amusement morphed into alarm, her voice growing shrill.

"Well, remember last night . . . how I was drinking scotch?"

"Yes . . ."

"I have no idea how it happened, but I might have . . . no, I definitely wrote a joke email to Edward's publicist telling her he has a daughter."

"You did WHAT?"

In a spew of gibberish, I somehow managed to relate the whole situation. By the time I finished, Rose, supportive friend that she was, couldn't speak through her howling laughter. I should have known—after all, this was the same woman who once prank called the girlfriend of a guy she liked and told her he'd left his shirt behind after a marathon fuck session. She wasn't exactly the most ethical prankster, but hey, all's fair in unrequited lust and war.

"Rose . . . ROSE! This is a disaster," I said, trying to break through to her. "What the hell am I going to do? I have to write back and tell them it was a joke. I feel like such an idiot."

I cringed, imagining what Edward would think. Hell, he probably didn't even remember me. Or maybe he did . . . why else would he ask for a personal meeting?

"No, no! Don't do anything yet. I'm on my way over. Just sit tight. Play with your daughter or something." She chuckled again.

"Ha."

"Oh, Bella, lighten up. This is . . . I just have something you need to see."

"Okay. Well, hurry the hell up. I'm totally freaking over here."

As I waited for Rose to show, I paced my apartment, willing myself to calm down. PV slept peacefully on the couch, her breath coming in even waves. More than anything, I wished I could do the same.

Finally, after what felt like forever, a knock sounded on my apartment door.

I unlatched the lock and opened the door, nearly bowled over as Rose stomped past in a whirl of flowing blonde hair, immediately heading to the computer on my desk.

"Is this the email?" she asked. I staggered up behind her and looked over her shoulder as she read.

"Obviously."

"Holy shit. You really did it."

"Yeah, I told you on the phone."

"True, but this is definitely something you have to see to believe."

I heaved a sigh and pulled out the desk chair, feeling my legs give way under me.

Coupled with the email disaster, my hangover quickly became incapacitating.

"What am I gonna do?"

Rose didn't answer for a second; her eyes still latched onto the screen.

"I can't believe he wants to meet. This is so weird."

"Yeah, I know."

"He must remember you."

"Maybe."

Finally, she turned around and crossed her arms over her chest, looking down. I noticed she still wore her yoga clothes, which almost made me smile. Despite her sometimes caustic behavior, Rose was a friend I could count on.

"So, what made you send this email in the first place?" she asked, leaning against the desk.

"I didn't send it on purpose! I swear!"

"Okay, well, what made you _write_ it?"

I breathed deeply, shaking my head. "Ah . . . I was pissed off . . . I was drunk. I don't know."

"Pissed about what?"

"Just . . . men. They're such assholes. First the Felix thing happened, and then last night I started reading up on Edward. His love life is . . . colorful . . . to say the least. I imagined getting back at him for being such a jerk. It was so stupid."

"Hmm. Maybe." Her expression turned thoughtful, and I wondered what was going on behind her blue eyes.

"What do you mean, maybe?"

"From what I've seen, Edward could use a little wake up call."

"Are you saying that I should go through with this meeting?" My incredulity only increased when she didn't deny it.

Instead, she shrugged and turned back to my laptop, waking up the screen.

"I was just screwing around on Youtube last night after we talked and came across this video. I wasn't going to show you because I thought it would upset you. But now maybe you need to see it."

"What video?"

With the click of a few keys, Rose brought up a video, speaking as it loaded. "Apparently Edward had an interview on _Good Night Britain_ a few months ago. It caused kind of a shitstorm."

I squinted at the screen trying to read the title of the clip. _Edward Cullen Discusses Love Life. _Sounded foreboding.

"Why?"

"Oh, you'll see," she said, pressing play.

The computer screen came to life, a camera panning across a clapping live studio audience to rest on a stage where Edward sat with a middle-aged, fair-haired man, obviously the host of the show.

"Who's that?" I asked.

"Aro Volturi."

"Weird name."

Rose nodded in agreement. "He's known for asking risqué interview questions. Just wait."

Leaning back and stretching his arm along the back of the leather sofa, Edward sipped a glass of water until the audience finally quieted. I tried not to notice how handsome he looked in his expertly tailored grey suit, his hair artfully disheveled. It appeared longer than it was now—he must have gotten it cut before _America's Hottest Chef_ began filming. The Aro guy asked him a couple of questions about his upcoming move to America, which Edward answered with casual yet practiced answers. After a little back and forth banter, Aro leaned forward conspiratorially.

"How have you dealt with the increasing media attention since your _Top Chef_ win?"

"It's a bit difficult," Edward said. "I can't go to most public places without being photographed. It can be tiring."

"Indeed," Aro said, sliding a magazine across his desk toward Edward. "You seem to be a _very _busy man."

Edward picked up the magazine and chuckled, running his hand through his hair. From what I could see, it was a tabloid with a picture of him and a woman on the cover.

"Ah, hmm. No comment."

"I take it you have no plans on settling down anytime soon?"

Edward put the magazine down and shrugged, opening his legs wider and leaning forward. "No plans for that at the moment. I'm busy. I prefer to keep things casual."

"So there's no special lady in your life? Would you say you've ever been in love?"

Edward shook his head. "No," he said. Then he smirked. "No one's captured my interest for too long."

"And the women you date are okay with this?"

"They know what to expect."

I scoffed and poked Rose in the side. What an ass!

"I bet they at least expect a 'goodbye'," I muttered.

Aro made a lame joke about needing to take lessons, and I tried to control the burst of angry laughter that erupted from my chest. Never in my life had I seen such a proud and public display of misogynistic assholery.

It felt like a slap in the face.

Edward smirked and took another sip of water. "I haven't had any complaints so far," he said.

No. He. Didn't!

I couldn't even pay attention to the rest of the interview, though from what I could tell it was more of the same.

"And you know the worst part?" Rose said, turning to me as the clip ended. "The women don't even seem to care. Just last week he was papped with some Victoria's Secret model. But as he said, I guess they know what to expect."

"God, I can't believe I ever fell for his sweet guy routine." All of a sudden, the earlier panic I'd felt about the email was replaced with something else . . . something much more like satisfaction.

"He must be shitting a brick right now," I murmured, leaning forward and re-reading the publicist's email again.

"Totally."

"I'd give anything to have seen the look on his face when his publicist told him."

"Well, that's the thing—you_ could_. Bella, if you do this . . . if you go through with this . . . you will be my personal hero. Think of it as your chance to stand up for wronged women everywhere."

"You sound like a _Lifetime _movie voiceover."

Rose laughed and flicked back to the video. There Edward sat, a smug smile frozen on his face. I wanted nothing more than to wipe that damn grin off. Watching that video had effectively killed any positive feelings I'd ever had for him. Obviously, he'd used his charm to get into my pants, all the while making me feel like what we had was more than sex. He'd been a seasoned pro even then, and I'd been young and naïve enough to believe he might have actually liked me . . . just a tiny bit.

"This is crazy."

"No. It's vengeance."

"You're a madwoman."

"You don't have to go too far. Just make him sweat a little. And don't you wonder what it would be like to see him again?"

_Yes, we are curious!_ Mom-voice chimed in. _This is a great idea._

_This is a terrible idea that will probably ruin your career_, Dad-voice warned. _Either that, or you'll get arrested or, worse, carted off to the loony bin._

I gnawed on my thumbnail, my mind racing and heart hammering as I imagined the possibility of actually going through with this whole thing.

"Do it, do it, do it!" Rose chanted, banging her fist on the table.

"If I get arrested you'll bail me out, right?' I asked, finally blowing out a long breath and leaning back in my chair.

Rose grinned. "You can count on me."

^_^AAT^_^

During my lunch break the next day I took a taxi to the midtown office building the publicist had indicated in her email. I wouldn't let myself think about what I was about to do because if I did, I'd never go through with it.

I had, however, made sure to dress impeccably—not to let Edward know what he was missing, because frankly, even with my body made toned from yoga and the occasional kickboxing class I couldn't compete with some of the chicks he'd dated, but to give myself confidence. I'd chosen my best power panties and sexiest bra, straightened my hair, and donned the most form-fitting, iconic Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress I owned. If I was going to be carted off to jail, at least I'd go down in style.

I paid the cabbie and exited in front of the glass and stone building, smoothing my skirt with sweaty hands and taking a deep breath. Edward was somewhere inside, I thought, gazing up at the rather imposing but beautiful turn-of-the-century structure. My heart, which had been beating erratically all day, started pounding again.

Inside, the air conditioning instantly cooled my heated skin, and I made my way over to the registration desk, giving the receptionist my name. I wondered if it listed me as Isabella Swan, potential baby mama/stalker.

Probably not.

"You can go right up to the fifth floor," she said sweetly. I gave her a tight smile and turned to the elevator bank, tapping my foot as I waited for the next one available.

The next few moments went by in a blur. Somehow I got on an elevator. Somehow I found myself opening the door to Starling, Inc. and surveying the tasteful and modern office space.

A man sat at the desk cradling a phone at his ear, his chair angled away from me. I stood awkwardly for a second, not knowing if I should interrupt or not, as he was clearly on a personal call. He must have sensed me behind him, though, finally hanging up and swiveling around.

"May I help you?"

I cleared my throat. "I'm Isabella Swan. I'm here to meet Edward Cullen."

The administrative assistant—Riley Biers, I noted on the placard—glanced down at his list with a furrowed brow.

"Ah, yes," he said, standing. "Right this way."

I followed him down a short corridor to the left of the desk. We paused before a closed door, which he inclined his ear toward before knocking.

_What the hell am I doing? _

Before I had a chance to consider the answer to that question, a woman's voice sounded from within.

"Come in." Her smooth voice was surprisingly deep.

He peeked his head inside. "Your one o'clock is here."

"Very good."

The door swung wide, and I got a glimpse of Jane Starling seated in a plush leather chair behind a long, sleek black desk.

The woman was even more diminutive in person than she'd appeared online. Her cool blue eyes swept over me appraisingly and darted to the assistant.

"Thank you," she said, dismissing him. He vanished from beside me without another word. Then her gaze latched back onto me. "Ms. Swan, please come in."

I entered, glancing around quickly. Edward hadn't arrived yet.

Jane stood and extended her hand. I took it, appreciating her firm grip. She gestured to another leather chair, one of two, on the other side of her desk, and I sat.

"Ms. Swan . . ."

"Bella, please."

She smiled, but the expression didn't reach her eyes. "Okay, Bella. May I be perfectly frank?"

"You may," I said, keeping my voice calm, though my insides felt like electrified Jello.

"This situation is unorthodox. I represent many clients, and yours is not the first . . . parental suit I've dealt with. I'm sure you can imagine how fame and money can bring undesirables out of the woodwork."

She looked at me before continuing, her message clear.

"But none of those alleged paternity suits have turned out to be authentic. And in fact, this is the first time a client of mine has ever requested a meeting with the . . ." She seemed to be searching for a delicate turn of phrase, "involved party."

"Is that so?" I replied casually. This, I hadn't bargained for—I never expected to have to meet with the publicist as well. I had just wanted to deliver the punch line, get the hell out of there and, maybe, while I was at it, get some kind of explanation for his sudden disappearance six years ago.

"Yes." She paused for a second, steepling her fingers and leaning forward. "How much, Ms. Swan?"

"Much?" I asked, confused.

"Money. How much money are you looking for?"

"Money?" I repeated, feeling like a damn parrot. Of course she'd think I was after his money. Great, they'd arrest me for extortion as well as fraud. "No. No money. You see, I . . ."

Just as I was about to admit my jig was up, a pretty male voice I remembered far too well spoke from behind me.

"Bella?"

Shit just got real.

I turned around, letting my eyes absorb the shock of this man from my past. He looked even more handsome than he did on the television, though a day's worth of scruff and the dark circles under his eyes told me he hadn't slept well. Good. So he'd been stewing over this. Satisfaction surged through me, followed immediately after by a wave of guilt at my underhanded actions.

Then the idea occurred to me that maybe he'd just spent a late night with some bimbo, neatly eradicating my burgeoning remorse.

He cocked his head, and all my thoughts were swept away by another memory—Edward standing on the beach, less than fifty feet away from a small herd of wild horses. We'd been picnicking near the shore when they'd quietly emerged from the dunes, heading toward the water to rid themselves of the pesky flies that plagued them in the marshes. Aside from a few other tourists scattered here and there, we'd been alone.

"Don't move too quickly or they'll spook," he'd said.

I'd sat silently watching the family—a foal and two larger horses—as they meandered past us, not giving us a second glance.

He had looked a lot like he did now—awestruck and more than a little wary.

"Edward," I said, a little too breathlessly. I stood automatically, our eyes meeting . . . and crap, they were just as green and mesmerizing as I remembered. They glanced down, then back to my face.

He shook his head as if to clear it. When he spoke again, his voice still held a note of incredulity. "It really is you."

"In the flesh." I crossed my arms over my chest in a defensive posture. "I'm frankly surprised you remembered."

"How . . . have you been?"

"I've been excellent," I replied, smiling brightly. "And you?"

He raised one eyebrow, just the hint of a smirk playing on his damnably attractive lips. But no, I wouldn't let myself be distracted. He might be pretty, but he was also a grade A, USDA certified asshat.

"I take it you already know the answer to that question," he said. A hard edge crept into his voice.

"Well, you're pretty hard to miss these days," I said, unable to resist rolling my eyes. "Even when I try."

Edward glanced over at Jane. I'd almost forgotten she was in the room.

"Jane, I'll take it from here."

"I think it's best if I stay," she protested.

"I'd like to speak with Bella alone."

She sighed and stood, collecting her bag. "I'll get some coffee." As she retreated, she squeezed his arm—a gesture of support or something more? I tried not to give a shit.

Once the door clicked behind her, Edward's eyes latched onto me again with that penetrating stare, sizing me up. I jutted my hip out. The two of us faced off for what seemed like forever, but in reality it was probably less than a minute. He was the first to speak.

"So, why stop?"

"What?" I asked.

"You said you tried to avoid me. So why the email? Why now?"

His eyes drifted over me again, making me feel exposed. I glanced away, marshalling the disappointment I'd felt the morning when I'd gone to Edward's beach house only to discover he'd already left. I'd rehearsed a whole speech about maybe . . . just maybe seeing if he was interested in staying in touch. I'd even brought him a tiny horse keychain, a gift to remember me by, as he'd given me PV. And then I'd called his cell phone. The rest was history. I spent months thinking there was something wrong with me, feeling ashamed and used.

"I'm not after your money," I said. "And anyway, you made it pretty difficult to contact you. This was my first opportunity."

"Shit," he muttered. I watched the color drain from his face. "It's true then? I have a daughter?"

I couldn't bring myself to actually confirm the lie out loud, so I avoided the question.

"Why did you leave without saying goodbye?"

He sighed and ran his hands through his hair, making it stand up crazily. It looked like it could use a wash. "I told you I didn't want anything serious."

"Yeah, I know that. A very charming technique, by the way."

"You said you understood and felt the same way."

I laughed. With all of his seeming experience, he knew nothing about women. Still, I didn't want to expose myself too much, so I just shrugged it off. Obviously he wasn't going to apologize of his own volition, so the best thing to do was just get out of there as quickly as possible.

"If I'd known there was . . . You don't . . . " Edward's voice grew agitated and suddenly he was all over the place, pacing across the room and turning on his heel. I tried not to notice how his upper body filled out his blue button-down shirt, looking away when he appeared in front of me with flashing green eyes. I couldn't tell if he was angry with himself or me, but I felt trapped. Had he always been so tall?

"You could have found me."

I looked back into his eyes. "You didn't want to be found."

"That's true."

He was definitely too close for comfort. I could smell his cologne—a woodsy, spicy fragrance. I stepped backwards, nearly toppling over the arm of the chair behind me.

Edward's hand darted out and grasped my arm, his grip firm around my bicep. Once I had righted myself, it rested there a few seconds too long before releasing me. He didn't step backwards.

No, I wouldn't let this man turn me into the flailing, ridiculous girl I'd been at twenty-two.

"So," I said. "Would you like to see a picture?"

"Of . . . her?" His eyes widened again, as if he'd never considered the possibility I had photo documentation.

"Yes."

I saw his Adam's apple dip as he took a substantial gulp. He nodded, a much less obvious gesture.

Turning from him, I traveled around the back of the chair, using it as a barrier between us. I felt it'd be useful, especially if he tried to lunge to strangle me. I dug into the bottom of my purse and pulled out my phone, opening my photos and the one I'd taken that morning for this very occasion.

PV sat fatly on my bed, her arms and legs tucked into her body in a way that made her look like a cat island. Ignoring Dad-voice, which at this point was chastising me for being an idiot, I thrust the phone forward into Edward's waiting hands.

He glanced down, anxiety morphing to confusion. Then his eyes returned to mine.

"What the bloody hell is this?" he asked, his voice rising.

"Don't you recognize your daughter?" I asked, my face arranged into the picture of innocence.

"A cat? You made me think I had a child, when . . . " Now he was really fuming. I reached out and grabbed my phone back before he could throw it at me. I'd seen him do just such a thing on his show last week.

"You gave her to me." I felt indignant on behalf of PV, wanting her to get the recognition she deserved.

"What are you trying to do here, Bella?" His piercing glare could have cut glass. "Are you mad?"

"What I'm trying to do is to show you there are repercussions to your actions. No, we don't have a daughter together, thank the good Lord above, but we could have, and you'd never know it because you treated me like crap and left without even having the decency to say 'see you later'."

As I vented, my voice rose, and I found myself advancing toward the door. Edward stood with his mouth slightly ajar, as if he couldn't believe someone was actually yelling at him. I took the opportunity to tell him what I really thought.

"I know you're all famous now and living the high life, but the things you do affect other people, not just you. So before you get all high and mighty with me and accuse me of being insane, which I just might be, by the way, I suggest you take a look at yourself. Because I'm not the only one who thinks you're a douchenozzle. And one day you're going to wake up, and maybe you'll realize that there are more important things than getting a piece of ass and having people worship you . . ." I nearly panted, trying to catch my breath. Edward looked like he was collecting himself enough to respond, but I decided to head him off at the pass.

"Or maybe you never will. And if that's the case, well then, I feel sorry for you. But don't worry. This is the last you'll see of me or my cat, who I still love, despite the fact she was a gift from you. Goodbye, Edward."

I turned on my heel and closed the rest of the distance to the office door, swinging it open to find Jane, icy eyes widened in alarm, blocking my path.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll let me by," I told her through gritted teeth. She stepped aside, and I swept by her, not giving either the Dickwad or his nosy dwarf agent a second glance.

Outside the building, I immediately hailed a cab and clambered in, not really understanding my need to hurry. I highly doubted Edward was going to come chasing me down after that little stunt.

As we drove, I took deep breaths and waited for a cleansing feeling of cathartic vindication to soothe me. It never did.

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><p><strong>AN: Lemme hear what you think of this madness. I'd love to hear from you! **

**If you want to rant/discuss/lurk, check out the Twilighted Forum for AAT: **http:/www(dot)twilighted(dot)net/forum/viewtopic(dot)php?f=44&t=16554&start=80

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Last (I apologize for the long A/N) but I'd like to thank those of you who nominated my stories for the following awards: Strange Brew has been nominated for a Giggle Snort award for Best Adult (http:/kwiksurveysz (dot) com/online-survey(dot)php?surveyID=NIENLF_c4ce1cee), and A Quiet Fire has been nominated for an Eternity Award for Best Romance (the-eternity-awards (dot) webs (dot) com) and a Shimmer Award for Best Author (http:/shimmerawards (dot) blogspot (dot) com/)

I believe the only one that's in voting stages now is the Giggle Snort award, and plenty of awesome authors are up to be recognized for their achievements. Please vote to show your support!


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns it all, I'm just playing around here. Thank you to my leader, aka Mac214, for betaing and giving this story your time and attention. Also, hugs and kisses to the dynamic trio: Ms. Junkowski, DiamondHeart78, and BellaFlan. Your suggestions make this fic awesome :)  
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><p><strong>Chapter 6: Revenge, A Dish Best Served with Cheese<strong>

Tuesday mornings at _La Vie en Rose_ were quiet. Since most of our events took place later in the week and on weekends, we spent the majority of our Mondays and Tuesdays doing prep work, cleaning out the walk-in and performing inventory. Years ago, when our business was still in its infancy, Rose and I did most of that stuff ourselves, chopping, slicing, dicing, blending, and sautéing from morning to night—eighteen hour shifts that made any life outside work nearly impossible. Now, though, we had a lot of help from our trustworthy and experienced chefs and sous chefs and rarely pulled more than ten or twelve-hour days.

So while it had become unusual for me to show up in the kitchen at the crack of dawn, some days I yearned to perform those basic, yet essential, repetitive tasks. The feel of the knife in my hand and the methodic, sharp tattoo of the blade as it met the cutting board helped clear my mind and soothe my nerves. The morning after my meeting with Edward, I needed the distraction.

As I approached the back entrance, our longest-employed dishwasher, Seth, waved with the hand he wasn't using to hold his cigarette.

"Hey," I muttered, greedily inhaling the second-hand smoke and wishing I'd never done something as stupid as quitting. I briefly considered bumming one but thought better of it.

He stubbed out the butt with the tip of his steel toe boot before following me inside.

Inside, the mellow sounds of Otis Redding wafted from our ancient, greasy stereo system. Laurent stood with his back to me, nodding his head and singing under his breath. His giant, ten-year-old dreadlocks tucked neatly inside a hair net made him look like Lenny Kravitz moonlighting as a lunch lady.

James and Irina murmured their hellos from their preferred stations, both entranced by the early morning work.

"How's that lamb from Pierowski's?" I asked, gesturing to the meat grinder James was busy filling. We made our own sausages with zesty fennel and garlic but had recently switched purveyors since our last had stopped meeting quality standards.

He held up a nicely marbled chunk of shoulder meat. "Beautiful," he said, the awe apparent in his voice. Like all of the cooks I employed, James had an appreciation for food that couldn't be taught in a culinary institute. That shit was real, deeply embedded from childhood. It was bred in the bones and seeped out through every task performed in the kitchen.

"Sa-weet."

I pulled on my apron and glanced over the cork message board—the place where we kept tabs on all our upcoming jobs and kitchen tasks.

Perfect. This morning I'd make the spicy peach chutney.

I set a stock pot of water to boil and went to retrieve a twenty pound crate of peaches from the walk-in. Armed with my ginger, garlic, vinegar, brown sugar, habanero peppers, and raisins, I'd chop, seed, blanche, and boil away the troublesome thoughts that had plagued me since my encounter with Edward the previous day.

Once I'd left the building and jumped in a yellow cab, I'd immediately called Rose and related the tale, down to the sound of Edward's publicist's voice, needing to gain some perspective on my arguably insane stunt. She'd been heading out to cover a gallery opening in Chelsea, so she couldn't really talk, but from what I garnered she thought the entire thing sounded like a hilarious episode of_ Sex in the City_-starring me as Carrie, or perhaps Samantha, laying hard into the latest in a long string of ne'er-do-wells and giving the female viewers back home a laugh along with a side order of vindication. But even as Rose congratulated me on a job well done, I felt worse than I had before.

When the adrenaline wore off and my thoughts reordered themselves, it didn't take long to figure out why.

One: he hadn't apologized or offered any explanation about why he'd left without a word. So much for closure.

Two: I had unwittingly given him reason to believe I'd been stewing all these years like some sort of jilted, pathetic loser just waiting for the chance to get my revenge. And the worst part about _that _was—it was partially true. If not, I never would have gone through with it, would I?

Three: He looked fucking good-better than I remembered. And for some reason that really pissed me off.

And overshadowing all of those reasons was a pervasive sense of . . . _wrongness_ . . . about the whole situation. My Catholic guilt feasted perniciously on the little buds of pleasure that had sprouted from seeing Edward squirm. Sure, he was a manwhore asshat, but did that really necessitate lying to the man about his paternity of our nonexistent child?

I drained the peaches and started sloughing off their skins with my fingertips, the juices from the ripe, blanched fruit creating a river on the counter. Seth threw me a clean rag to mop up, and I caught it midair, swiping at the sticky, sweet orange nectar.

"Girl, what in the world are you doing here?" Emmett's voice boomed from the other end of the room, and I turned, smiling to see him standing with his arms folded across his massive chest.

"Chutney-ing," I replied, waving my knife. He chuckled and grabbed an apron from the side hook, joining me at my station.

"It's pretty early for you," Emmett said quietly. A not-so-subtle elbow to my side told me he was onto me.

Yesterday, I'd finally broken down and told him about Edward after I arrived back at the office in a tizzy. At first he hadn't believed it—because, really, who would? But then I pulled up the emails, and he had sat there with a shocked expression on his face. Emmett McCarty, the unflappable New Yorker who once ignored a man dressed like a pirate taking a dump on his front stoop, had gawked at me like I was the strangest creature he'd ever seen.

Then he'd shuddered and shook his head.

"I can't believe you had sex with him and didn't tell me."

"It was a long time ago . . ." I'd trailed off, nervous that he thought me loathsome.

"If I'd known, I wouldn't have let him into my fantasies last night. That's just weird. Now it's like we've both had sex with the same guy."

His answer had surprised me, making me guffaw.

"I can't believe you choked your chicken to thoughts of Edward. That's just . . . oh, God," I'd gasped for breath, clutching my sides with both hands.

"It wasn't my fault. He weaseled his way into my mind."

"Yeah," I'd said finally. "He does that."

I chuckled a little, remembering our exchange, then glanced at Emmett, who'd already begun chopping.

"So," he said, "you feeling any better about it today?"

I shrugged, folding my diced peaches into the bubbling sugar-vinegar mixture. "I guess."

"It was good to get it out of your system. Like Jacob."

Jacob, the tall, dark, muscular cop, was Emmett's Achilles heel. The two of them had met at a bar and were exclusive for a quite a while—a first for Emmett—but they'd broken up a few months before. Emmett never told me why, but I thought it might have had something to do with their differing beliefs about being gay. Whereas Emmett had been out and proud since high school, Jacob'd had a much harder time being open with his very religious, conservative family. He'd never come out to his parents. Still, I knew Emmett still had feelings for him, no matter what he said or how many guys he'd dated or crushed on since then. Jacob Black had made an imprint on his heart.

"Right," I muttered, casting him a sidelong glance. His face remained impassive, focused on the cutting board in front of him as he chop, chop, chopped Jacob out of his mind.

The rest of that morning passed uneventfully. Rose came into the office and we spent some time going over the books before I had to head back downstairs again to clean out the deep freeze; I liked to know what we kept and what we threw away.

But thoughts of Edward kept darting around in my head, little pesky gnats slowly driving me crazy. Perhaps I'd left his publicist's office too hastily. I hadn't really given him time to speak. But then again, it would only have been more of the same—I highly doubted anything I'd said sunk through his thick skull. And even if it did, he probably hated me now anyway. Good. I sighed, clutching some sort of unrecognizable frozen meat to my chest, realizing I had to let these thoughts go. It didn't matter anymore, and it was time to focus on myself, my friends, my business.

Just then Laurent's Trinidadian accent drew me out of my head.

"Did yuh ordah some cheese?" he asked, his forehead creasing as I turned.

"What cheese?"

He shrugged. "Dey's no label. No ordah form. Per'aps it is ey geeft?"

Curious now, I followed him out of the freezer and into the kitchen. There, on one of the stainless steel prep counters, sat an opened cardboard box surrounded by gel cooling packs and all sorts of sizes and shapes of wrapped cheese. Just as Laurent had said, there was no label on the box, nor any note indicating the sender, which was strange since_ I_ hadn't ordered it. If it was a gift, the giver obviously wanted to remain anonymous.

I picked up a round of cheese and turned it around in my hands, surprised at the AOC label on the _Reblochon, _indicating it was authentic and European. Ever since the FDA tightened its restrictions on French soft, raw milk cheeses, I hadn't seen one for years, though you could still get them on the "black market" if you knew the right people. I picked up another package—a _Bleu de Gex. Banon a la feuille. _Nearly twenty discs and wedges of cheese and each one of them, for all intents and purposes, illegal.

"Oooh," said Irina from behind me, snatching one of the packages, "is this real _Valençay_?"

"I have no idea."

"May I?" she asked, raising her eyebrows expectantly.

"Be my guest."

She unwrapped the paper to reveal a bluish-grey tinged pyramidal cheese, cutting into it with a sharp knife. The others oohed and ahhed, accepting bits to taste, but the whole situation had me on edge, the wheels in my mind turning.

I was on the cusp of an epiphany when a nervous-looking Seth entered the kitchen, followed by . . . a fucking health inspector. I didn't recognize the guy, whose floppy blonde hair made him look like a teenager. Very menacing.

"Are you Isabella Swan?" he asked, his voice very serious.

"Yes."

"We received an anonymous tip that you've been smuggling and serving illegal cheeses."

"I . . . what?" Instantly aware I still held said illegal cheese, I quickly dropped it back into the box like it was a turd and not a highly prized delicacy.

Inspector blondie did not look pleased.

Dammit!

_Edward!_ This was his revenge, no doubt about it. Who else would have sent me pounds and pounds of luscious, forbidden cheese and then called the Heath Department? He must have figured out where I worked and planned accordingly. I eyed my employees suspiciously, wondering if Cullen had any of them on his payroll.

Then my gaze dropped down to the badge on the Health Inspector's chest. "Newton," it read.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I said, the guilt creeping into my voice in spite of myself.

He eyed the box on the counter and I smiled. Perhaps I could win him over with charm?

Perhaps not.

It turned out that Health Inspector Newton took his suppression of illegal cheese very seriously. I invited him into my office to explain, but he'd already pegged me an inveterate _contrabandier_ _de fromage._ I could tell he didn't buy my story.

Just when I thought he'd shut me down and turn me in to the police for more advanced interrogation techniques, Jacob Black appeared at the door.

"Jake!" I cried, never so relieved to see a cop. Had Emmett called?

He gave a swift nod and addressed Newton, narrowing his eyes a bit. Apparently the two of them knew one anther.

"Mike, this is a misunderstanding. A practical joke."

"That's what I've been trying to tell him," I grumbled. Newton shot me a dirty look and then glanced back at Jake. His position of humbled but begrudging deference clearly indicated that Mike didn't appreciate the interruption, even if he recognized Jacob's jurisdiction.

"You can head out," Jacob said. "I'll finish up here."

Newton rose, and the two men filed out into the hall where they exchanged some words I couldn't hear.

When he reentered a minute or so later, Emmett trailed awkwardly behind.

"Jacob," I heaved a sigh. "Thank you so fucking much. That guy was just . . ." I drifted off, not sure I should insult Newton, even if he was an idiot.

"Newton's an idiot," Jake said, taking the words out of my mouth. "He's a newbie."

"He could have fooled me. I thought you guys were gonna go good cop, bad cop on my ass."

Jacob broke out in a smile. "Newton's not a cop . . . Didn't pass the test, thank God. And anyway, that's a game I play after-hours."

Suddenly the room fell into silence, the tension between him and Emmett a palpable force. Emmett shuffled uncomfortably on his feet. I could tell he was having a difficult time keeping his eyes off his ex.

They were an attractive couple, though. There must be almost five hundred pounds of manmeat between the two of them, all washboard abs and meaty thighs. I wanted to knock some sense into them and send them up to Massachusetts to have a big gay wedding.

Emmett finally spoke, and my heart went out to him when I heard the longing in his voice. "Thanks for coming down."

"No problem," Jacob said, clearing his throat. "I'm glad I could help."

They stood for a moment, considering each other before Emmett looked away. Jacob turned back to me.

"What would have happened to me?" I asked, imagining prison scenarios where a large, hairy woman named Rhonda made me her bitch.

"You'd have been fined, maybe. Possibly nothing. We have bigger things to worry about down at the precinct than cheese."

"Oh. Right. Real crimes and all that." I wondered if Edward knew the punishment, or if he hoped I was at this moment languishing in a jail cell with Rhonda. "Can I keep the cheese then?"

Even if it was meant as a practical joke, that cheese was definitely too good to go to waste.

Jacob shook his head. "Sorry."

"Damn."

A few minutes later, after I'd convinced Jacob I didn't want to pursue the matter further and sufficiently thanked him for saving my ass, we said our goodbyes. Emmett gazed after him, the forlorn puppy dog look on his face strangely commensurate with the black leather collar he wore around his neck.

"Go after him," I urged. Emmett shook his head and thrust his hands into his pockets.

"Woman, if only it were so easy."

^_^AAT^_^

That evening, I returned home to my apartment in surprisingly good spirits. Edward's little stunt made me feel better about mine. At least I hadn't tried to get him arrested. Even though I didn't actually have proof, I was more convinced than ever he'd been the one behind it.

I fed PV and whipped up some dinner for myself before booting up my laptop to check my personal email. What I saw in my inbox made me inhale sharply and choke on toast crumbs.

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Isabella Swan_

_Subject: Say Cheese. _

I snorted. For a good-looking, playboy asshole, he was such a dork.

_Dear Ms. Swan,_

Oh, so we were now on a last name basis. I see.

_My publicist provided me with your email address—the one you used when you were so kind as to let me know about our 'daughter'. I hope you don't find it too invasive or untoward of me to be contacting you this way. After all, we're practically family._

_When you ran out of the office so quickly yesterday, you left me unable to explain myself or react to your interesting revelation. You did, however, make it abundantly clear that you harbor ill will towards me for a perhaps misguided decision I made long ago. This is regrettable since until yesterday I only remembered you with fondness. _

_It was unfortunate we couldn't have met again under other, more desirable, circumstances. But I trust you received my gift today. Please accept it a gesture of my goodwill. _

_And one last thing: what, may I ask, is a douchenozzle? _

_Sincerely,_

_Edward Cullen, _

_Head Chef and Owner, Mix Restaurant. _

The nerve of him! A _gesture of goodwill_? I set my plate aside, my fingers immediately tapping out a reply. I barely noticed PV jump up on my chair and started tucking into my forgotten scrambled eggs.

_From: Isabella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Subject: Are you kidding? _

_Dear Mr. Cullen,_

_Yes, I received your "gift," as you termed it. Funny. In America, we usually don't consider sending the health department to someone's house an act of benevolence. Or perhaps you've spent so much time away you've forgotten our customs? I did spend a completely unproductive afternoon with an inept health inspector, though, so thanks for that. _

_The reason I left so quickly yesterday was due to the fact that I have no real desire to converse with you. I came to say my piece, I said it, and that's that. I meant what I promised—I have no desire to interact with you in any way, shape, or form. _

_But anyway, I suppose we're even now. You got me good. Well played, bravo, and all that._

_And as for what a douchenozzle is—you're clearly an enterprising man. If you want to be successful in this country, I suggest you read up on your American slang. But rest assured, the stunt you pulled today just reconfirmed my initial assessment. _

_Sincerely,_

_Isabella Swan_

_Head Chef, La Vie En Rose Catering, Co. _

I re-read my words and, satisfied, clicked send. That would be the last of Edward Cullen.

The next morning, though, his reply sat tauntingly in my inbox. I considered deleting it. I really did.

"Should I read this?" I asked PV. She blinked slowly, a sure sign of assent. I didn't need to respond, after all. What harm could come from simply reading it?

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Isabella Swan_

_Subject: American Slang_

_Dear Ms. Swan,_

_Thank you for the tip._

_According to Urban Dictionary, there are many definitions for the term "douchenozzle." Perhaps the following is the one closest to the meaning you intended? _"_A male who acts and looks like an utter jackass. Someone who transcends common insults to the point that simply calling him a "jackass" or "douchebag" will no longer do. Much more offensive than simply calling someone a douchebag." _

_I was not aware that I'd surpassed "jackass" until today. My life's work is complete! _

_Yes, I admit the prank I pulled on you was perhaps a little . . . extreme. But in my defense, I read up on ridiculous American restrictions on cheese importation and knew that there was only a very slim chance of you being prosecuted. Still, perhaps I went a little too far. I figured you had an appreciation for a well-executed practical joke. _

_Did you at least get to try the _Bleu de Gex _before it was confiscated? It's one of my all-time favorites. _

_Sincerely,_

_Edward Cullen,_

_Douchenozzle _

My blood now boiling, I couldn't resist replying.

_From: Isabella Swan_

_To: Edward Cullen_

_Subject: You've got that right_

_Dear Mr. Cullen,_

_How very considerate of you to have read up on the (admittedly ridiculous) cheese laws and satisfied of the "very slim chance" of prosecution. You do realize you could have jeopardized my catering license and my career, right? Or was that your intention all along? _

_I must admit, though, I felt a little bad about what I did until you were so kind as to relieve me of that burden with your own "well-executed practical joke." (A little presumptuous, is it not, to describe your own "joke" in this way?)_

_And no, I didn't get to try the _Bleu de Gex_, though I'd never have tried it for fear of poisoning even if it hadn't been confiscated._

_Isabella Swan,_

_Vexed by Gex_

I sat huffing at my computer after I pressed send, just daring him to reply. He didn't, and I got up to shower and ready myself for work.

When I arrived an hour or so later, Emmett stood loitering outside my office door.

"What's wrong?" I asked as I unlocked the door. He followed behind me, looking grim.

"There's another unmarked package in the kitchen."

I groaned and dropped my purse on the desk.

_What the fuck is it now - a bloody horse head? _

"Did you open it?" I asked.

Emmett shook his head. "I'm scared."

"Me too, my friend. Me too."

Deciding I'd rather tackle the "gift" now rather than later, I trudged downstairs after Emmett, wondering how my life had become so weird . . . well, weirder . . . in the last three days. Really, I had no one to blame but myself.

Emmett cleared his throat as we entered the kitchen, and the rest of my staff backed away from the unassuming brown cardboard box on the counter. James shrugged and gave me a sidelong grin.

"Go back to work," I told him. "I'll deal with this."

Grabbing a sharp, serrated knife, I punched it down, then drew it carefully along the taped seam, wondering what horrors lay in wait. The whole time Emmett hovered behind me, looking on.

Once the box was opened, I put down the knife and unflapped the sides of the box, peering down.

"What the hell is this?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So, what do you think is in the box? Horse head? I'd love to know your thoughts.**

**In case you haven't heard, I'm heading out to San Diego for the Comic Con fic panel along with some other awesome writers. If you have a question for any of us, or a topic to suggest related to fic, submit it on the blog: http:/twificpanel(dot)blogspot(dot)com/**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: SM owns it, she gets paid, good for her. **

**My team is amazing. Mac214 (the coffee thing-her idea) is my super-beta and I couldn't write this without her. BellaFlan (thank you for your ass douching and meat dress suggestions), Ms. Junkowski and DiamondHeart78 are the bestest pre-readers around. Writing this story is hilarious and awesome b/c of you all. **

**My representations of Lady Gaga and Jennifer Aniston in this chapter are entirely fictional.  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Last time on our program:<p>

_Grabbing a sharp, serrated knife, I punched it down, and then drew it carefully along the taped seam, wondering what horrors lay in wait. The whole time Emmett hovered behind me, looking on._

_Once the box was opened, I put down the knife and unflapped the sides of the box, peering down._

"_What the hell is this?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7: To Douche or not to Douche?<strong>

Emmett reached down and pulled out a small, black package that looked like it contained coffee. He peered at it closely, wrinkling his nose.

"What the hell is civet coffee?" he asked.

"What!" I exclaimed, grabbing the foil bag in disbelief. I'd only ever heard about it—the rarest and weirdest coffee on earth.

"Isn't a civet an animal?" James asked, obviously having ignored my earlier request to go back to work.

I sighed and handed the coffee back to Emmett. "Yes. Yes, it's a small cat-like animal . . ."

"So what's civet about the coffee?" Irina's nasally voice interrupted.

Emmett shuddered, clearing his throat his eyes fastened on the back of the package. "Apparently the civet eats the coffee beans and excretes them. Then insane people collect the beans from the poop, dry them, and make coffee. That's what's civet about it."

"Excrete?" Irina asked, her voice aghast. "You mean it craps them out and people collect them?"

"Yes," I snapped. "That's usually what 'excretes' means." I couldn't believe it. Edward had sent me coffee made from cat poo. Okay, civets weren't exactly cats but close enough.

"Eet ees supposed to be a delicacy," Laurent added helpfully. "The roast ees mellow and smooth."

"Well, if you're interested, it's yours." I tossed him the package, and he caught it against his chest, but then immediately held it away from his body. Sweet Laurent, trying to make me feel better even though the coffee obviously skeeved him out.

"So who's sending you this stuff, Bella?" James seemed to be fighting a smile. A couple of titters erupted from behind me, and I glared over my shoulder at Seth and Irina as they whispered to each other. The last thing I needed was for my staff to know about the juvenile shenanigans I now found myself embroiled in. But before I could think up a suitable fib, Emmett said my name. I turned back to him.

"Yeah?"

"There's something else in here." He pulled out the second, immediately recognizable item.

Fancy Feast. Ha ha.

"It's Ocean Whitefish Delight," he reported, sounding impressed.

Obviously Edward knew nothing about PV; if he did, he'd have known she preferred Savory Salmon.

"And look: here's a note."

Irina's eyes grew wide as she gazed at the small, white envelope. "Ooh. Read it!"

I took the note from Emmett's extended hand and, grumbling to myself, stomped back up to my office. Once inside, I closed the door and flopped down on my chair, tearing open the envelope with resignation.

_Dear Ms. Swan,_

_You wound me. No, I had no intention of harming your career with my (presumptuous as it may be to for me to say) well-executed practical joke. In fact, I planned to come forward myself if things went too far. You may not believe me, but that's the truth. And no, I wouldn't intentionally poison you, either. I haven't the slightest desire to add murder to my already lengthy list of moral indiscretions. _

_I do hope you enjoy the coffee, Ms. Swan. It's quite a rare blend, as are you. You'd be amazed what interesting items one can find in the Food Network kitchens and storerooms. And please, make sure my daughter receives her Fancy Feast. Reprobate father, I am not. _

_All the best,_

_Edward Cullen_

_America's Hottest Chef _

I re-read the note, trying to decide what to make of it. The end, when he'd called PV his 'daughter' almost made me smile. I had to force down the corners of my mouth lest even my secret reaction give him satisfaction, then snorted aloud at the appellation he'd given himself. _America's Hottest Chef_. And had he just compared my personality to cat—er, civet—poo coffee? Once a douchnozzle, always a douchnozzle.

I'd already grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen when Emmett knocked tentatively on the door. He stuck his head in when I didn't reply.

"What did it say?"

I paused and smiled brightly.

"Em, how would you feel about doing me a favor?"

"What?" He eyed me, the skeptical tone of his voice reflected on his face.

"I need you to deliver a package. But first . . . do you have any idea where I could buy a douchebag?"

"Probably over in Long Island." He smirked at his own cleverness. "Bada-bing!"

"Not a dude. An actual douchebag. You know, like the feminine sanitary wash . . ."

Emmett grimaced dramatically and stepped away from my desk, folding his massive forearms across his chest.

"What exactly do you think I'd need a douchebag for? My ass? Wait, maybe I should douche my ass. I've considered bleaching it, too. Nah, my ass is cleaner than the Pope's. Damn. Did you check with Rose? I bet her lady bits smell like rotting fish—she's diiiiiiirty."

"Good point," I said, finally interrupting Emmett's insane but highly amusing ramble. "Let's call Rose."

^_^ AAT ^_^

That night I left work early and made myself homemade macaroni and cheese, not allowing myself to check my email even though I literally itched with the desire. I melted the Gruyere, cheddar, and blue cheese and cooked the pasta, trying not to step on PV as she sat near my feet, full and content, after her dinner of Savory Salmon.

There was no way I would give her the whitefish.

But after I'd eaten and cleaned up the mess, I could no longer resist the lure of Edward's inevitable response to my _gift._

_Dear Ms. Swan,_

_Ah, the very apparatus in question. Quite an alarming piece of equipment, to be sure. I spent quite a while trying to determine exactly how it works and even went so far as to consult the Wikipedia article on the subject. _

_Consider me scarred for life. There are some things that can never be unlearned. _

_And here I thought we were becoming friends. While I could discourse at length on this matter, unfortunately I have to be on set in just an hour to film what you term my "trite Gordon Ramsey knockoff." Gordon is quite a good friend, actually. He'll be amused at the comparison. So this means you actually watch my show? How interesting. _

_Sincerely,_

_Edward Cullen_

_Ramsey Wannabe_

PV jumped on my chair and found her way into my lap, kneading her claws into my jeans to make a comfortable nest before lying down. I petted her absentmindedly, trying to figure out why I felt uneasy after reading Edward's email. I couldn't tell from the overall ironic tone whether or not he was offended. Had I hurt his feelings, or had he taken it in stride? And why the heck did I care?

After all, he still hadn't apologized or offered any explanation for how he'd treated me. There was no way I should feel bad, right?

"What do you think?" I asked my cat, scratching behind her ears. She yawned dramatically, sending a waft of eau de fish guts my way.

"Yeah. You're right. Let's call it a night." It was late, and I had to be in to work early the next morning to prep for a large event in Brooklyn.

Before I closed my laptop, I bit my lip and composed a reply.

_Edward,_

_I'm so glad you liked the present. I hope you find it useful._

_Yes, I've seen a couple episodes of your show. You can't tell me no one has ever compared it to Ramsey's. Seriously? I've often wondered whether the person on the screen is the real you, or whether the network has created a persona to generate ratings and cater to the audience. I like to hope the man I met six years ago isn't completely gone because, except for the part where he left without a word and basically made me feel like dirt, he was a nice guy. _

_Isabella Swan,_

_Head Chef and Co-Owner, La Vie En Rose Catering Co._

_P.S. My friend Emmett suggests you might use that apparatus by shoving it up your ass. Hey, it might help! _

It didn't occur to me until I'd already pressed send that I'd addressed him as Edward.

^_^ AAT ^_^

He never replied.

That week I watched his show out of morbid curiosity. He seemed testier than usual, snapping at Tanya, running his hands through his wild hair in frustration when Garrett burned the caramel sauce. He swore with abandon—not his usual, television-sanctioned British curses but dirtier words the censors bleeped out.

It briefly occurred to me perhaps my email had made him angry for some reason—maybe that was why he hadn't replied. Could I have been right? But my rational mind immediately overturned the thought. Imagining Edward Cullen actually cared what I thought was a fantasy in which I couldn't afford to indulge.

I turned off the TV after the first half-hour and called Emmett to see what he was up to. He sounded depressed, and I knew he was still thinking about Jake. Instead of sitting around my apartment wasting my mental energy on he-who-would-no-longer-be-named, I went over to Emmett's with a six-pack and made him a giant pile of nachos with extra cheese. We ate, drank, and watched Project Runway re-runs, giggling like loons until we both fell asleep on his couch.

Another busy week passed, filled with weddings and early summer parties. The kitchen seemed to be in operation twenty-four hours a day, which was fine by me. I thrived on the adrenaline this time of year brought.

On Friday, I was going through client files on my work computer, trying to locate the contract for a wedding we had that evening and coming up with nothing, though I knew I'd worked on it just the day before.

This wasn't like me.

Maybe I'd saved it in a different folder? Shit, had I deleted it? I was at my wits' end, literally pulling my hair out, when the door opened and Rose flew in, looking as frazzled as I felt.

She pulled up a chair and dropped into it.

"What is it?" I asked her, immediately alarmed.

"I have to go home . . . tonight."

"What?" I asked her. "Why?"

"Alice is having the baby!"

Her excitement was so contagious, I forgot all about the missing contract.

"Oh my God! That's so awesome. You're going to be an auntie!"

"So . . . it's okay then? You'll cover the party tomorrow?"

Oh, shit. I'd almost forgotten.

The week before I'd received an unexpected call from Lady Gaga's personal assistant. Apparently Gaga planned to celebrate the release of her new album with a party at her Central Park West penthouse, and the caterer they'd hired had pulled out at the last minute –- would we be able to take the job on such short notice?

I'd readily agreed, knowing Rose would be thrilled to oversee the event. Unlike me, who tended to shy away from celebrity parties because of the often unpredictable, erratic, and sometimes downright rude behavior I'd experienced, Rose thrived in such an atmosphere. And she was so gorgeous people often mistook her for a celebrity herself.

"Oh, God."

"Bella, please? I've already got Emmett to go with you. And I need to be there for my little brother." Jasper had been born three minutes after Rose, and she never got tired of reminding him of it.

I smiled and nodded, and Rose leapt up and flew around the desk to hug me. I hadn't seen her so exuberant since Bloomingdale's last spring clearance sale.

"Thank you thank you thank you." She squeezed my cheeks together and planted a kiss right on my lips.

"It's nothing. Go see your family," I said, finally extricating myself from the unusually effusive love-fest. "But if Lady Gaga wears a raw meat dress I'm cooking it. That's a health violation."

^_^ AAT ^_^

Gaga's PA had been weirdly vague about what sorts of passed appetizers we should prepare, insisting they be "inspiring," and that they should fit along with the theme of the party, which was "Under the Sea."

Yes, Gaga was apparently planning a Little Mermaid party.

I took the liberty of being a little creative. Laurent, James, and I cleaned out large scallop shells to fill with fresh blood orange and scallop ceviche. We skewered lime-wasabi marinated mahi-mahi with sugar cane, readying them to grill at the party. Despite the fact that many of her guests probably wouldn't eat the little smoked salmon and crème fraiche pizettas, I figured they were classic, so we prepped them anyway. The terminally emaciated, beautiful people could use a little fat and gluten. Of course we also had the requisite sushi, caviar, and oysters on the half shell.

At seven-thirty, approximately an hour and a half before the party was set to begin, Emmett arrived to help us load everything into the van. Not wanting to risk fucking shit up, I made sure only our most seasoned waitstaff followed in the car behind. All together, there were nine of us—two bartenders (including Emmett), three chefs, and four servers—for the 100-person party.

Gaga's residence was palatial, even by non-New York standards, encompassing three floors on the top of one of the city's most exclusive buildings. Her assistant—a tall, thin woman with dramatically arched eyebrows—greeted us and ushered us into the kitchen.

"Holy shit," Emmett said as he passed by me carrying a rack of freshly cleaned wineglasses. "This place is insane."

I hadn't gotten a look at the rest of the house yet, but I nodded. "Yeah, tell me about it."

"No. I mean, it's really insane," he hissed in my ear. "Did you know they have a tank for guests to snorkel in next to the dance floor? It's filled with exotic fish."

"Too bad you didn't bring your bathing suit," I said, sniggering as I filled a scallop shell with an individual serving of fish and fruit. "She's really not fucking around with this theme, is she?"

"Apparently not. And as soon as guests walk in the door, they each get a mask and a snorkel."

"I guess maybe you won't need a bathing suit after all."

Emmett laughed and continued on his way, leaving the rest of us to prep the apps.

I immediately set to work, so in the zone that the first blast of music nearly sent my chef's knife into my hand.

"Shit!" said Alistair, one of the servers. Apparently the music hadn't only startled me.

"What ees it?" Laurent immediately set down the tray of pizettas and went to Alistair, who was currently wrapping his right hand in a kitchen towel—blood had already started to seep through. I shuddered.

"I dropped a glass in the sink. I cut the fuck out of my hand trying to pick it up," Alistair growled.

Laurent investigated the cut and shook his head, while I kept my distance. Even though I was a chef and had cut myself loads of times, blood and I . . . didn't mix.

"Dis ees verrah deep, my friend. You need to go to de hospital."

"Shit."

"Someone else will have to serve," I said. "Can we call Laurie?"

"She's out of town for her daughter's wedding," James interjected.

"Shit."

"There's Alec," Alistair mentioned.

I shook my head. The last thing I needed was him to skewer Lady Gaga with a sugar cane appetizer.

"I'll do it," I said, untying my apron. Things in the kitchen were under control, and neither Laurent nor James had waitstaff experience. I, however, had hoofed it during high school and through college to make the rent, so I'd take one for the team.

Alistair was already gathering his stuff to leave. I gave him a twenty to pay for a cab ride to the E.R. and grabbed a bamboo tray from the stack we'd brought along.

"All right, boys," I said. "Let's do this thing."

^_^ AAT ^_^

By ten o'clock, most of the guests had arrived and I'd already served over twenty trays worth of apps. Gaga was nowhere to be seen, but I did recognize some of the people in the room. Jay-Z and Beyonce, looking low key and completely normal, stood chatting with another, probably famous, couple. I barely spoke to anyone, slinking through the crowd with my tray and a smile plastered on my face, inwardly grimacing at the dismissive way people treated me even as they gobbled my food like starving hyenas. Still, the music was good and things in the kitchen and on the floor ran smoothly. I actually started to sort of enjoy myself.

By about ten-thirty, people had started to get antsy waiting for the lady of the hour. They didn't have to wait long.

Suddenly, she appeared at the top of the white, winding steps, wearing what could only be described as . . . was that a giant rabbit's foot around her neck?

If so, it must have come from a mutant rabbit. The thing was huge, furry, and purple, hanging right between her bare breasts. As I moved closer, though, I noticed she had something on her nipples. Stickers of some sort.

But it was her skirt that attracted the most attention. Shimmering in the low, pulsing light of the party, Gaga's fishtail mermaid skirt was so tight she could barely walk. Two of her dancers, themselves clad in scaly, turquoise jumpsuits, had to carry her downstairs.

They placed her down, and she was immediately subsumed by a wave of people. A couple of daring guests had decided to brave the snorkel tank and had attracted quite a crowd of curious onlookers. I watched the shenanigans for a while before making my way to the bar, where Emmett stood shaking a cocktail for some brunette chick. Jennifer Aniston was friends with Lady Gaga? I guess stranger things had happened.

He passed the pink-tinged beverage to Aniston and gave her a killer smile, which she returned, tipping him a twenty after she took the drink. I resisted asking her if she'd found her lobster yet.

"You're a whore," I said, grinning.

"You know it." He pocketed the money and poured out two tequila shots, sliding one toward me.

"I can't, Em. I'm working."

"No one will notice. And no one will care. It's a party."

"Emmett . . ."

"Girl," he said, lowering his voice, "you're so going to need this."

"Why? This isn't so bad. I smile stupidly and mock them inwardly and they pretend I don't exist. No worries." Emmett raised his eyebrows and jerked his head to the right.

"Don't look now. But I think you might know someone here."

Of course, me being me, I looked. There, standing with a group of willowy and attractive people, none of whom I recognized, was Edward freaking Cullen. And he was staring right at me.

He didn't seem to be alone. A strawberry blonde woman, nearly as tall as Edward, stood to his left and laughed, placing her hand possessively on his forearm. I wondered if this was the Victoria's Secret chick Rosalie had mentioned or some other bimbo of the week.

My blood ran cold. I turned back to Emmett and downed the shot, grimacing as the warm liquor coated my throat. Emmett passed me a lime to cut the taste, which I took and

sucked greedily.

"I can't fucking believe this," I mumbled, the lime still in my mouth.

"He's still looking at you."

"Oh, fuck. He probably thinks I'm stalking him or something."

"The way you're sucking that lime, I'm not exactly sure that's what he's thinking."

Emmett's words startled me, and I dropped the now eviscerated lime back into my shot glass. "Shut up. I gotta go reload."

Luckily, the kitchen door was on the opposite end of the room from where Edward stood with the blonde glamazon. Once inside, I breathed deeply and smoothed my hair. Glancing down at my plain black pants and button down, I felt not only under-dressed but dowdy.

"How's it going out there?" James asked as he helped me load my tray.

"Uh, fine." My vague reply made him smile sympathetically.

"Well, if you need a cig, you know where to find me."

"Don't tempt me, James."

I was probably the only person in the New York food industry who didn't smoke anymore.

So I returned to the floor, grateful that another of the servers seemed happy canvassing the "Edward side" of the room. I tried not to look at him but snuck an accidental peek at one point. Completely accidental—and brief. He no longer looked at me; in fact, he wasn't looking at anyone. He stood frowning at the glass of scotch in his hand, twirling the liquid idly while the people around him chatted. The underwear model was nowhere to be seen; that is, until her tits appeared right in my face. Her high-heels and abnormal height forced me to look up at her, a fact I detested.

"Do you have any more of those fish sticks?"

"Fish sticks?" I asked her, confused. The last thing I knew, we didn't serve Van de Kamps.

"Yeah," she drawled out the word slowly, blinking her wide, mascaraed eyes. "The ones on the skewers."

"Oh," I said, comprehension dawning even as her spider-like eyelashes mesmerized me. "You mean the mahi-mahi. They're not fish sticks."

"Yeah, whatever. It was fish on a stick. Same difference." She practically spat the last words, making me flinch. But then I got angry. _No one refers to my food as fish sticks and gets away with it_. Childhood memories of my mother's horrible cooking made me hate those little buggers.

"Not really. Fish sticks are a processed food made with reconstituted minced fish, breaded, fried, and served at your local Sizzler. The item you're referring to is freshly caught, grilled medium-rare. So you see, there is a substantial difference." I punctuated my little speech with a smile that could have been interpreted as sweet or bitchy, depending on your perspective. Unfortunately for me, she interpreted it correctly.

"How dare you speak to me like that, you little bitch," she seethed. "What do you know, anyway? You're nothing but a damned waitress."

"Don't talk to her like that," came a voice from the right. Edward stood glaring, looking fine in his casual grey button down and jeans.

Perhaps I had been a little out of line giving the glamazon a snarky yet edifying lecture on fish. Still, she'd certainly been ruder to me than I had been to her. I opened my mouth to protest when she spoke again.

"Thank you, Edward," she said with a contrived sniffle.

"I was referring to you, Athena."

"Me?" She looked at him, shocked. "What did _I _do?"

"There's no need to be so rude, especially since you have no idea at all what you're talking about." He uttered the last words with disdain, and his eyes flicked over her dismissively before returning back to me.

"The food is excellent, Bella," he said, sincerely.

"What, you_ know_ her? Big surprise," Athena huffed. "Jane told me you'd always preferred slumming it."

Edward turned back to her with a warning look, but before I could respond to either of them, Emmett threw his arm around my shoulders.

"We need you in the back," he said under his breath. I nodded, leaving Edward and Athena to their argument and wondering what the hell had just happened.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** **Let me know what you think!**

**Did you see my new AAT blinkie? Check out my blog (link on my profile) for the link. It's awesome! Thanks Ange! **

**And if you'd like to discuss, there's a Twilighted forum for that: http:/www(dot)twilighted(dot)?f=44&t=16554**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: SM owns it all. All representations of publicly recognizable figures and places are entirely fictional. **

**Thank to Mac214 for being my super beta and Ms. Junkowski and Diamondheart78 for their pre-reading/betaing! Love to you all!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight: My Big Gay Boyfriend<strong>

As soon as Emmett pulled me away from Edward and his fembot, dragging me toward the kitchen, my attention refocused on the job. Was something on fire? Had someone else cut themselves? Had Lady Gaga stolen the rest of our scallop shells and strung them together to create a more substantial top?

Laurent and James seemed to have everything under control, though. They gave us a nod as we entered, and I turned to Emmett in confusion.

"What's the emergency?"

He shrugged. "You."

"What?"

"You looked like you were about to pounce on that chick out there, woman. I figured I'd better diffuse the situation before someone got hurt."

"Yeah," I muttered. "Thanks. But it wasn't going to be me."

"Clearly, but I'm broke and I didn't want to have to bail you out for murder. Who was that, anyway?"

"Edward's date, I assume." My mouth fought against the word 'date', spitting it out like something horrible I'd eaten. "Tasteless hoebag" seemed more appropriate.

"What happened? Why were you two facing off like feral street cats?"

As my anger faded, I started feeling a little sheepish about my fish stick rant. Instead of meeting Emmett's eyes, I looked away and started fiddling with my apron.

"Don't you have a bar to tend?" I asked evasively.

Before he could respond, I heard the door swing open behind me. Emmett glanced over my shoulder and swept me up into his massive arms, eliciting an unintentional "meep" from my lips.

"Just go with it," he whispered in my ear. And then his mouth covered mine with such superhuman speed I didn't even have time to protest. I clutched his biceps to steady myself, my body frozen and eyes wide open as his tongue plunged into my mouth.

He wasn't a bad kisser, but what the fuck?

Either Emmett had just turned straight (particularly unlikely at a Lady Gaga party since most her entourage was parading around in scaly leotards), or he thought I was choking on a chicken bone.

_Did he just grope my boob? _

When he finally released me with a final swipe of his tongue, I stared at him, speechless, wondering if I should smack him or ask him for lessons. Not that I needed more proof, but Jacob was a damn fool to let Emmett get away.

"Uh . . ." I said as Emmett gently released my arms.

A throat cleared behind us. I turned around, almost forgetting someone else had come in.

Gawking at us with an expression equal parts confusion and embarrassment, Edward Cullen stood near the doorway, clutching his now-empty glass of scotch.

_Shit. He'd just seen Emmett kiss me. _

_Fuck. Why should I care? _

I glanced to the side; Laurent and James eyed us with similarly perplexed expressions.

"Sorry to . . . interrupt," Edward said, shifting from one foot to the other.

"No worries," Emmett replied in his best "straight" voice, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and giving my arm a squeeze. "Sometimes I get a little carried away with lovin' on my lady."

I nearly rolled my eyes. He sounded like a Pauly D impersonator. I could see what Emmett was trying to do, but no way Edward was going to buy our "romance."

"Of course," Edward said, looking very English in his mortification. "Completely understandable."

Or . . . maybe he did.

I shrugged my way out from under Emmett's arm, a fake grin plastered on my face. "Not at work,_ honey_," I said, forcing the last word out through gritted teeth.

Despite the thumping bass coming from the other room, the atmosphere in the kitchen radiated quiet tension. Edward seemed on the verge of speaking just as the door swung open again, this time whacking him on the arm. Hard.

"Shit!" he cursed, rubbing the place where he'd been hit.

The responsible server cowered and made effusive apologies, but Edward just shrugged it off.

"I suppose I shouldn't have been standing here," he muttered, more to himself than to the rest of us. She nodded and scurried off to refill her tray, leaving the three of us to stand and gape at each other like the large eyed Madagascan lemurs the chick from Edward's show loved so much.

Edward's intense green eyes darted from me to Emmett. Mine ping-ponged from Emmett to him. Since my friend had three inches and fifty pounds on him, I could understand Edward's trepidation.

"Bella, can I speak with you for a moment?" he finally asked. "Alone?"

"Uh, yeah, sure." I said dumbly, glancing at my employees as they pretend-worked. The kitchen wasn't exactly private, especially with James around. He was nosier than Emmett and Rose put together.

Edward stepped forward and placed his glass on the counter, watching me.

"Can you give me a second?"

He nodded and crossed his arms, turning away. I took the opportunity to drag Emmett across the kitchen to the pantry and force him inside.

"What the heck was that?" I demanded, smacking him on the chest. My blows didn't even register-I felt like a flea sparring with a buffalo.

He chuckled and held his hands up in mock surrender.

"Giving your friend out there a little taste of his own medicine."

"What the hell are you talking about?" I seethed, hitting him again.

"Ow, ow, okay, okay." Emmett backed away from me. "Listen, you were pissed off Edward brought a date here tonight."

"No, I wasn't. I was pissed she called my Mahi skewers _fish sticks_."

"What the fuck?"

"Exactly."

"Okay, but if she was anyone else, would you have torn her a new one?"

"Yes," I said stubbornly.

"No, the correct answer was _no_. Admit it."

"No."

He cocked his head to the side, eyeing me skeptically. "Bella?"

"Okay. Maybe it irritated me just a little. She's such a bimbo. It's so stereotypical it's sad."

"Honesty is the best policy." Emmett obviously felt like he'd broken down a wall or something—but even admitting a teensy, tiny bit of jealousy had, if anything, made the situation exponentially more fucked up.

"Okay, Oprah. That sounds a little hypocritical coming from a gay man who just groped my boob for show. So what the hell am I supposed to do now?"

"Let Edward think you have a man. A fine one, at that." He thrust out his hip and smacked his ass for emphasis. "I'm your buffer. Your safety net. You can't really believe he's been fucking with you for no reason."

Emmett's train of thought was so far ahead of me I didn't think I'd ever catch a ride.

"Edward is _not _interested in me, Em. Please. And anyway, he thinks I'm crazy."

"If he thought you were crazy, would he have tried to egg you on with those weird gifts?"

"He was trying to get me back, you know, for . . ."

"Your insane baby daddy stunt?"

"Yeah, that," I muttered, my guilt over the whole thing resurfacing.

Emmett rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Maybe, maybe not."

In the silence that ensued, muffled voices from the kitchen broke me from my train of thought. Shit, Edward. What did he have to say to me?

"I gotta go," I said, nerves creeping into my voice. "Let's talk about this later."

"Try not to miss me too much, sweetie," he joked, giving me a peck on the cheek. "And be careful. Remember, I'm a very jealous man."

"You're an insane man," I replied before trailing out after him back into the kitchen to face the music. For all I knew, Edward had some sort of bizarre and embarrassing stunt planned to humiliate me in front of Gaga and all her celebrity friends.

Laurent regarded Emmett and me with one corner of his mouth raised, clearly wishing he was in on the joke. But my eyes were drawn to Edward. The top button of his shirt was undone, revealing just a hint of light chest hair. Despite the casual look, he seemed far from comfortable standing there with his arms crossed and just the hint of a scowl on his handsome face. What did he have to be pissed off about?

"So?" I asked as I approached.

"I know you're busy," he said quietly, "I'd just like a second of your time."

"Where to?"

Edward gestured for me to follow him. I did, out of the kitchen and thorough the thronging crowd of partygoers, most of them on their way to wasted via drunk.

Luckily Athena didn't seem to be in the vicinity; even so, I kept my eyes focused ahead on Edward. He moved quickly, with long, sure strides, and my stupid eyes drifted towards his ass. I tried not to remember what it looked like naked, but found the restraint quite difficult. Was this what guys felt like after they had a one-nighter with a girl they later saw at the supermarket?

Edward paused in front of a door on the far back wall, away from most of the party traffic. With my luck it was probably a medieval torture chamber.

But once inside, I blinked back my surprise. I found myself in a surprisingly normal, standard sized TV room. A large flat screen decorated one wall, and, aside from an impressive collection of DVDs that had probably cost thousands of dollars, the room was sparsely furnished. Maybe Gaga came here to decompress after she tired of swimming with the fishes in her living room.

"Bella," Edward began. I forced myself to look at him, despite my unease. He met my gaze with a tentative smile.

"I wanted to apologize for the way Athena treated you. She had no right to speak to you that way."

"Thank you," I said, getting my bearings. "But I can stand up for myself."

Edward laughed. "Yes, you've made that clear."

My face grew hot, and I licked my lips nervously. Was I being a total bitch? I hated not knowing what to say . . . as soon as we'd stepped into the room I'd forgotten how to react appropriately.

"Sorry," I said a bit reluctantly. "I appreciate the gesture."

He nodded and then moved to sit on the sofa. Not wanting to remain standing, I took the chair to the left of it.

"Sorry to have . . . barged in on your . . . snogging. Your . . . ah . . . boyfriend seems quite . . . nice." Edward leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, steepling his hands together. I tried not to notice the way his pants bunched at the crotch. My God, I was such a pervert!

"Uh . . . yeah . . . he is."

It was probably for the best that he thought Emmett and I were together—and to explain the truth now would be humiliating. At least this way he wouldn't figure me a single, pathetic moron while he hit the sheets with blow-up Barbie.

Two more uncomfortable, less articulate people had never been in a room together—I'd have bet money on it. Just to make the situation a tad more excruciating, I opened my mouth again.

"Your girlfriend doesn't really seem to be into food." Maybe she doesn't know anything about it because she doesn't eat?

Edward grimaced but quickly regained his composure. "She's not my girlfriend."

"Oh, right. Well, whatever you call it," I said dismissively. Fuck buddy?

"Athena is Jane's cousin. My publicist—you remember, of course." Edward raised his eyebrows and smirked.

"Of course," I replied, trying to wrap my head around the fact that Jane and Athena were related—they were like a real life version of Dr. Evil and Mini-me.

"We've been out a few times, but we're not sleeping together, if that's what you think." He rubbed his hands on his knees and then leaned back.

"Hmm." My murmur couldn't sound less convinced if I tried. "It's not really any of my business."

"No, but you assumed."

"Well, yeah, obviously. She seemed pretty possessive of you." I didn't bother to mention he seemed to revel in being perceived as a man whore.

"Hmm?" Edward's eyes lit up in curiosity.

"Not that I was watching you or anything," I blurted.

"Of course not," Edward said, letting me off the hook for some reason. "In any case, I've seen her a few times as a favor to Jane."

"Okay," I said, remembering Athena's comment about slumming it. She seemed to think she was the one doing him the favor. And anyway, Edward didn't exactly have the best track record with issues of trust.

"You don't believe me."

"Not really," I said honestly. "And anyway, I don't believe it matters what I think."

Edward didn't seem to like my reply. His brow creased, and he rubbed his temple. "I suppose I deserve that. But for what it's worth, I'm not interested. She's a bit daft."

I snorted. "Obviously, if she thinks I'd ever serve fish sticks at an event."

"Fish sticks?"

"That's what she called my Mahi."

Edward rolled his eyes. "I missed that bit. I was wondering what she was on about."

"Yeah, well, I probably shouldn't have said anything. But I couldn't help it."

"You care a lot about your food."

"Of course," I said simply. "It's everything to me."

"It shows," he said. I didn't know how to take the compliment, so I just sat there while he continued.

"I would have perhaps used a little more acid in the ceviche," he said, offhandedly. "But on the whole I thought it well executed."

"More acid would have ruined the texture of the scallop," I protested, falling into his trap despite myself.

"Not if you sliced the fish thin enough."

"It was thin enough. It was practically see-through."

"Hmm," Edward seemed to consider this. Then he shrugged. "Maybe the one I ate was an anomaly."

"I doubt it. I did all the slicing myself."

"Perhaps you need a sharper knife."

"Perhaps you need to stop being so damn cocky!" I seethed, leaning forward. "This isn't your show, Edward."

Edward grinned like he was having the best time in the world—a familiar smile, so different to the smirk he'd adopted since I'd first known him. It completely disarmed me with its suddenness but disappeared just as quickly. I tried to remember why I'd just been so pissed off.

"It's nice to know some people still find passion in their work," he said finally. The enigmatic statement hung in the air, but I didn't have time to pursue it. I needed to get back to the party, and moreover, I needed to know the reason for him bringing me here in the first place. That unanswered email didn't seem to indicate he wanted further contact, so what the heck was this all about?

I glanced at my watch and back up, flustered by the way he stared at me. Did I have something in my teeth? I ran my tongue across them just to be sure.

"So if that . . ."

"I was . . ."

We both spoke at once, cutting each other off.

"Sorry, go ahead," Edward said, lifting his hand.

"No, that's okay. I was just wondering if that was it or if there was something else you wanted to say. I need to get back to the kitchen."

"Well," he paused. "You were probably wondering why I didn't respond to your last email."

"Not really," I lied. "I figured you'd finally gotten tired of the game."

"On the contrary," Edward said, his eyes crinkling at the edge as he smiled. "I enjoyed the game immensely. How did you like the coffee, by the way?"

"Oh, it did wonders for the clog in my garbage disposal."

He smirked again, leaning forward. "At least tell me our daughter enjoyed her meal."

"My daughter," I said, emphasizing the _my_, "doesn't care for whitefish."

"Ah," he replied, his eyes drifting to the floor. When he looked up again a few seconds later, his expression had shifted once again. He looked completely serious and just a touch . . . upset?

"To be honest, Bella, this isn't exactly how I imagined this would go."

"How you imagined what?"

"My apology."

"Apology?" I felt like a broken record with the questions, but for the second time that night I found myself blindly seeking the rationale behind someone else's actions.

"The reason I didn't respond to your email . . . is because I'm sorry. For the way I treated you. It was a bloody cruel thing to do, even if I didn't . . . mean it that way. Ah," he sighed and stood, running his hands through his hair in frustration. "There's more I'd like to say to you, but I know you don't have time. Would you have coffee . . . er . . . tea with me sometime? Let me do this," he gestured between the two of us, "in a more appropriate way?"

Apparently, Edward needed practice with apologies. From what I'd seen tonight, they weren't exactly his strong suit, which was strange, since I always imagined little English boys and girls learned social niceties in utero. Still, his request, along with the tone of delivery, surprised me. I found myself tempted to say . . . yes.

I stood up and smoothed at my shirt, trying to get a handle on my confusion.

"Are you even allowed to go out? People must mob you. Where would we even have tea? I mean, it's not like you can walk into your local Starbucks and just grab a cup of joe . . ."

Edward finally cut my rambling off with a light touch on my arm. The contact startled me, but I didn't pull away. Instead, I ogled his hand until he removed it, probably out of fear I'd bite him. I wondered how he'd taste. Gah! I was an insane, perverted cannibal.

"Is that a _yes_?" he asked, his voice holding a trace of amusement.

"Um . . . it's a maybe," I said. "I just . . . I don't know if it's a good idea. But I'll think about it. Okay?"

"I suppose. I'm not generally a patient man."

"Well, you're going to have to be. I need to get back to work. You can email me." I raised my eyebrow accusingly.

"I was going to reply," he said, sounding affronted. "I just hadn't . . ."

"Hmm . . . well. It's a good thing I wasn't holding my breath," I teased.

"Yes, it is. Or else I'd never have had the pleasure of seeing you tonight."

I rolled my eyes at his line, thankful I had a fake boyfriend, before starting towards the door. I had to satisfy my curiosity on at least one point.

"Edward," I said, "Can I just ask you one question?"

"Sure."

"How the hell do you know Lady Gaga?"

He shrugged and answered with an amusing matter-of-factness.

"She likes my cooking."

I rolled my eyes again. "I bet."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So, I posted a bit early. :-D Hope you enjoyed seeing a bit more interaction between our chefs. Thank you for sharing your thoughts on the story!  
><strong>


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: SM owns it all. All references to publicly recognizable figures and places are purely fictional.**

**Thanks to my awesome beta Mac214, and BellaFlan, Ms. Junkowski and Diamondheart78 for reading this and making it pretty! Now on with the show.**

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><p><strong>Chapter Nine: A Game of Chess<br>**

* * *

><p>Monday morning came with the usual flurry of activity, and it found me guzzling a giant latte to clear my fuzzy head and bleary eyes. I'd been trying, and failing, not to obsess over Edward's speech at the party. I wasn't at all surprised when Emmett carried a gigantic brown cardboard box into my office. He set it down on the floor with a "thunk" and winced, rubbing at his neck.<p>

"Shit, that's heavy," he said, panting. "I almost fell down the damn stairs."

"What the hell is in there?" I asked, going over to investigate. The box looked unassuming enough, but I knew from experience that if it was from Edward, it could contain anything.

"Titanium, I'm pretty sure."

I frowned and crossed my arms, wishing I had superpowers so I could bore a hole through it with my stare.

Emmett finally regained his breath and, with a swift swish of his Exacto knife, opened the box.

A small envelope, addressed to me in Edward's neat script, was sitting on top of what appeared to be a lifetime supply of Savory Salmon cat food. Had I told him which kind PV favored, or was Edward some sort of weird cat psychic?

Shaking my head to erase the foolish thought, I tore open the envelope and read the short note inside, trying to tamp down the excitement fluttering in my chest.

_Dear Bella,_

_I hope the contents of this box are more agreeable to _your_ daughter. I understand now I have not earned the right to call her mine, but I was hoping the weekend had given you time to consider my request to give me a chance to say my piece. _

_It was a pleasure seeing you the other night at Lady Gaga's house. (I never thought I'd write that in a letter-the Gaga part-not the part about seeing you. Ah, you know what I mean, I hope). Anyway, you know where to find me on email. I won't bother you anymore if you no longer wish to hear from me, but I would like to talk. _

_Until then, I consider myself "in check,"_

_-Edward _

_In Check?_ What was that, a chess reference? Dammit, why didn't I know more about chess?

"Why are you smiling?" Emmett asked, his tone skeptical. I hadn't realized I was smiling. I immediately fought to bring the corners of my mouth under control.

"No reason."

"I'm not sure I like another man sending my girlfriend presents and notes that make her smile." Emmett poked me in the side jokingly, but he sounded kind of serious. I raised my head, noticing the concerned expression on his face.

"You're taking this a little too seriously, I think."

Emmett clutched his chest. "Oh, that hurts." He sniffed. "I thought you loved me."

"Not the boyfriend thing," I said, "though when you drilled your tongue down my throat I thought for a second you'd been scared straight. I meant about Edward. He just wants to have coffee, tea, whatever. It's no big deal."

Emmett raised one of his furry eyebrows at me. "And I'm the Dalai Lama."

"Forgive me, Your Holiness. All this time we've been friends, and I never knew," I quipped with a subtle bow.

"So, are you gonna accept?"

I bit my bottom lip as I re-read the note. The thought of seeing Edward again . . . wasn't terrible. But I still didn't think it was a good idea. But didn't he deserve a chance to say what he had to say? Wasn't I curious about it—the apology I'd been waiting for but never expected to get?

_YES!_ Mom voice screeched inside my head.

_No. Absolutely not,_ rejoined Dad voice. _And give me a call, kid._

I decided to ignore both voices for the time being, shrugging as I fit the note back into its envelope.

"I'm not sure yet."

"Not sure about what?" Rosalie had materialized in the doorway. She looked exhausted but tan from a couple of days down south in the sun.

"Mamacita!" Emmett grabbed her up and planted a kiss on her forehead. She hugged him back fiercely, cursing when he lifted her off her feet. I watched with amusement; in another life they'd have been perfect for one another.

After I received my own hug, Rosalie produced her camera and proceeded to show us about a million pictures of the baby. Little Carmen, named after Alice's mother who'd died when Alice was only ten, had been born a healthy eight pounds, three ounces. She had a full head of dark hair and a scrunched up, red face, but she'd be beautiful as soon as she stopped impersonating Gilbert Gottfried.

"Alice looks good," I said, pausing at one frame. Jasper and Alice sat together on the hospital bed, gazing at their daughter with twin expressions of awe.

"That woman isn't even human," Rosalie muttered. "I swear, she didn't even have an epidural, and she's tiny! I swore I thought her vagina was going to tear when . . ."

"La la la la la la la," Emmett sang at the top of his lungs. He'd stuck his fingers in his ears and closed his eyes like a little bitch at the mention of tearing vagina.

"You don't even have a vagina, Emmett. At least I don't think so." Rose took her phone back and stowed it back in her bag.

"True, but I have a very active and sympathetic imagination."

Finally, Rose's attention turned to the box on the floor. She peeked in and picked up a can of cat food, turning to me with a quizzical expression.

"What did you do, buy stock in Fancy Feast? You're not using this instead of pate are you?"

The two of us had often joked about substituting cat food for foie gras at the weddings of picky couples we particularly disliked. We hadn't actually done it . . . yet.

"No, that's another present from loverboy," Emmett said before I could answer.

I seized the can and shoved it back in the box, closing it the best I could. "But I thought you were my lover, Em. What are you saying, you want to break up?"

"Wait a second," Rose said, holding up her hands. "Back up. What the hell happened in the three days I was away?"

With occasional interjections from Emmett, I told Rose the whole Gaga saga. She listened with rapt attention, emitting a "Hell, yeah!" when I got to the part about Athena and the fish sticks.

"That's a great band name, by the way," Emmett mused.

Rose gave him a shove, then turned back to me. "So, Edward said he was sorry?"

"Um . . . I think so."

"He wants to have _tea_?" Rose indicated her derision by wrinkling her nose. She only drank coffee, water, and booze: the holy trinity.

"Yeah."

"And he thinks Emmett is your boyfriend."

"That's the long and short of it." I sniggered when I realized what I'd said.

"LONG," Emmett assured us. "Very long."

"You better bring something to spike that tea with, otherwise I have no idea how you'll get through it alive." Rose perched on the edge of my desk, crossing her legs and folding her arms.

"This isn't a great idea," she said. "I don't like it."

"She hasn't said yes yet," Emmett added.

"Will the two of you relax? Have some faith in me." My voice rose. "It's just tea. My God."

Emmett rolled his eyes and leaned against my desk next to Rose, assuming the same position of arm-crossed consternation. I felt like I faced a firing squad of highly disapproving relationship dictators.

"So you're doing it?"

The words came out before I even had a chance to think. "Maybe. But it's probably going to suck."

"Probably," Emmett rejoined. Then he heaved a dramatic sigh. "But you never know until you try."

Rose nodded, affirming the words of our friend, the sage.

_Checkmate. _

^_^ AAT ^_^

It turns out carting two hundred pounds of cat food down the streets of New York wearing heels isn't a great time. Even with the dolly I'd borrowed from _La Vie,_ the thing was cumbersome as hell and blocked nearly the entire sidewalk, forcing oncoming pedestrian traffic off the curb and into the street at risk of serious bodily injury.

When I reached my building, I was presented with another challenge: I couldn't lift the box, nor could I drag the dolly up the stairs. Instead, I was forced to take several trips, loading up reusable shopping bags with cans and garnering myself some interesting looks from passers-by.

And then there was the question of storage. The closets of my small apartment were already bursting at the seams with clothes, shoes, cleaning supplies, and random care packages from my guilt-ridden mother. Frustrated and exhausted, I collapsed on my couch as PV appraised the cornucopia.

"It's your favorite," I told her. "Be excited."

She sniffed the cans, and then turned her attention to the giant box. With a graceful leap, she cleared the side and landed inside. She scratched around in there, pleased as punch I'd brought home her very own cat playland. If only Edward had known she'd love the box so much more than the food, he could have saved himself some expense.

A few minutes later, my stomach growled. I needed to eat and change out of my work clothes but first I needed to call my Dad. We hadn't spoken in a couple weeks and, though he liked to give me my freedom, he worried about me living all alone in the "big city."

He answered, as always, on the third ring.

"Hi, Dad," I said as I stood and stretched. My back creaked, and I kicked off my shoes, wondering why I'd kept them on so long.

"Heya, kiddo," he replied. "I was just thinking of you."

"Me, too," I said, padding to the bedroom to wriggle out of my skirt.

"Watcha been up to? How's business?"

"Business is great, actually," I said, pulling on some comfy pants. "We covered a party at Lady Gaga's last weekend."

"Lady Who-ha?" Dad asked. I could picture him scratching his head.

"She's a singer. A famous singer. Wore a meat dress . . . never mind," I trailed off, taking a moment to discard my shirt. When I brought the phone back to my ear, my dad complained gruffly.

"I don't like the sound of you alone at some wild party."

"I wasn't alone. Emmett was there." Despite my father's conservatism, he actually got along with Emmett quite well. He'd been a proponent of abolishing the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy while he'd been in the military—an unpopular opinion at the time.

"That's good," he said. "Do you at least have that pepper spray I gave you?"

Can? Ha. I had a drawer full of 'em. Birthday, Christmas, Thanksgiving, Flag Day; whatever the occasion, Charlie armed me with another can of aerosol poison.

"Yeah. Really, no worries."

We talked for a bit about the usual—fishing, baseball, Sarah Palin's potential candidacy (a prospect I dreaded but my dad secretly loved.) Finally, he said something I was not expecting.

"You should call your mom, you know. She worries."

"What? Why?" The last I knew, my parents hadn't spoken in years. "When did you talk to Renee?"

"Oh . . . uh . . . " Dad trailed off, caught off guard by my rapid fire questioning.

"Dad, you talked to Mom?"

"We've been . . . speaking. A little."

"What does THAT mean?" I asked, aware my voice had gone squeaky without permission.

"It means . . . I don't know. It means we're talking."

"It means you're talking about me? About you?"

"About a lot. About us. She's thinking about coming for a visit, actually."

"Coming to visit? How long has_ this_ been going on?"

My volume rose. Suddenly, I felt like an angry teenager again, out of control and emotional.

"Bella, now calm down," Charlie said, regaining his authority. "I'm your father, and she's your mother. We don't need to answer to you. We're just talking. I haven't seen Renee for a while and . . . people change . . . people . . ."

"People don't change! Dad, she left us. She left you. I can't believe you're really considering this."

I paced around my bedroom, pulling at the hem of my shirt in distress. I hated how vulnerable this made me feel—for me, for my dad. Even though he had a gruff exterior, my dad had a tender heart. He'd been in love with her all these years, and there was no way she deserved it.

"Bella," he said again. "I'm not stupid enough to think anything's going to happen, okay? But if she wants to come, I'll see her. We had a life together, you know?"

I took deep breaths, letting my father's words sink in. He was right, after all. He was an adult. And really, he could do what he wanted.

We spoke for a few more minutes, but the uneasiness persisted after we hung up. PV was still having the time of her life in her new palace and didn't seem to be interested in dinner. Neither was I.

I sat on my couch, listlessly flipping through channels and avoiding the Food Network like the plague. Edward's show had a commercial every other second, and I really didn't need to see his damnably attractive . . . annoying face while I struggled with this decision.

This thing with my parents had me thinking. Sure, I'd told Rose and Emmett that meeting with Edward was no big deal, but . . .

All of a sudden, I felt on the verge of an epiphany. I'd never really forgiven my mother for walking out on my dad and me. Had I somehow let my anger at her, my unwillingness to forgive, carry over into my life? Did I not want Edward to apologize? Was there something about demonizing him that I enjoyed, even depended on?

_Shit, was I that fucked up? _

Feeling slightly alarmed and slightly impressed by my self-reflection, I wandered to my computer and booted it up, opening my Gmail account to check my personal mail. Bills, store coupons, a forward from Emmett containing a picture of a guy with a giant cock.

Nice. Save that one to folder marked "Taxes."

It was then I noticed the green dot next Edward's name indicating he was "available."

I snorted at the double meaning. But then my heart started drumming in my chest. If I wanted to, I could thank him for the cat food. I could accept his invitation for "tea." I could . . .

Suddenly, nausea roiled my intestines. My thundering pulse got louder, filling my ears. I couldn't understand my nervous reaction, even as I tried, and failed, to control it. It was just Gmail chat, for Christ's sake! If I could cater a party for Lady Gaga, I could say "hello, thank you for the cat food" to Edward Cullen!

But then the little green dot disappeared, leaving me strangely disappointed, despite the evaporation of my fear.

Every night that week, I booted up my computer in the hope of catching Edward's little green light, but I never did. For some reason, I couldn't bring myself to email him. I tried. I composed emails, deleted them, and tried again. Nothing I said seemed right. I couldn't resolve my need for self-protection with my desire . . . to see him.

Finally, on Friday afternoon a note arrived.

_Dear Bella,_

_I can't say that I'm not disappointed I haven't heard from you. There are probably many reasons for your continued silence, not the least of which I'm sure is your trepidation concerning my intentions. _

_You will find enclosed a keepsake you may remember. If you do, I hope, one last time, you will consider hearing me out._

_-Edward Cullen_

I peered inside the envelope, my breath catching when I spied a tiny, perfect black shell.

The minute object worked like a key, unlocking a distant memory. The two of sifting through shell fragments on the beach, a few lonely gulls pecking at the detritus left behind on the tide.

I'd wanted to bring a jar filled with shells back to New York, but we hadn't had much luck finding intact specimens. Out on the Outer Banks, the tides were too rough. Shells broke on the beach, dashed by the waves. This was no friendly maritime zone.

"They're all broken," I'd complained, raking my hands through the sand in futility.

"Hey, look," Edward had called, a few feet away. He held in his hand a tiny black shell, perfectly round and smooth. He flopped down next to me and grabbed my hand, placing the shell on my flattened palm. "It's cute. You want it?"

I could tell from the way he was smiling that, though he'd never admit it, he wanted to keep it.

"No," I'd said, passing it back. "That one's yours. To remember me."

^_^ AAT ^_^

That evening after an exhausting wedding in Long Island, I finally arrived home after midnight. Before I went to bed, I checked my email, hoping that maybe . . .

His green light was on. Edward home on a Friday night? I rolled my eyes, wondering if Athena was there with him. Did I really believe they weren't sleeping together?

Part of me did, but I didn't trust Edward - not even after the shell. Hell, he could've picked one up on any beach and pretended he'd kept it all these years. It didn't mean anything.

Still, I found myself holding my breath as I clicked on his name.

Bella S: _Hi._

A minute passed. Nothing.

E. Cullen: _Hi there._

Bella S: _What are you up to?_

I nearly slapped my forehead after I pressed enter. What was I, fifteen years old? I felt like an idiot as I waited for him to respond.

E. Cullen: _Oh, you know, I just got back from pillaging villages and stealing children. All in a day's work. You? _

Bella S: _Same._

E. Cullen: _LOL_

Bella S: _LOL?_

E. Cullen: _What, I can't use web speak?_

Bella S: _It's just funny. You sound so formal in the notes you send me._

E. Cullen: _Oh, so you got those?_

I let out an "oof" as PV jumped into my lap. I stroked her behind the ears, trying to decipher Edward's tone.

Bella S: _Was that supposed to be sarcastic?_

E. Cullen: _What do you think?_

Bella S.: _Yes._

E. Cullen: _You assume correctly. _

Bella S: _Thank you for all the cat food. I'm sorry I didn't write back sooner. _

E. Cullen: _Did you get the shell?_

Bella S: _I did. Tell me the truth. Was it real? _

E. Cullen: _A real shell?_

Bella S: _Ha ha._

E. Cullen: _Yes, it was real._

Bella S: _I have no idea how I'm supposed to interpret that._

E. Cullen: _You seem pretty good at interpretation._

Bella S: _Not where you're concerned._

He didn't reply for a moment, and I stared at the green light, wondering if it would disappear in front of my eyes, just like he'd gone from life years before. PV kneaded my legs, her sharp claws poking through the cotton fabric of my pants.

"Ow," I said, gently disengaging myself. "Someone needs their nails cut."

She looked at me with half-lidded eyes and went back to kneading.

E. Cullen: _You don't give yourself enough credit. I'm not nearly as complicated as I seem._

Bella S: _You give yourself far too much credit. You want to seem more complicated than you are._

E. Cullen: _?_

Bella S: _::shrugs::_

E. Cullen: _I see you too are versed in the language of the web._

Bella S: _I dabble._

E. Cullen: _What were we talking about? Oh yes, the shell. Yes, it was from the beach._

Bella S: _You kept it?_

E. Cullen: _Is that so hard to believe?_

Bella S: _Kind of._

E. Cullen: _You really don't trust a word that comes out of my mouth, do you?_

Bella S: _I think you're typing now, no? _

E. Cullen: _touché._

E. Cullen: _I don't claim to have a good explanation. It is merely an explanation. _

Bella S: _Okay, fine. Let's meet._ _What's your schedule like?_

E. Cullen: _Insane. Yours?_

Bella S: _Same but probably more flexible._

E. Cullen: _Perhaps Sunday?_

My dormant nerves kicked in again. That was only two days away.

Bella S: _That works for me._

E. Cullen: _Are you sure your boyfriend won't mind?_

Shit, I'd almost forgotten about the Emmett thing. Well, no, that was good. Emmett was my buffer. Still, his insinuation that my fake gay boyfriend dictated who I saw and who I didn't annoyed me.

Bella S: _No. This isn't a date. And really, I try not to let my menfolk dictate what I do._ _I get to leave the house on my own and everything! _

E. Cullen: _ But only on the full moon, right? _

Bella S: _Hey Edward,_ _Do you want your shell back?_

E. Cullen: _That would be nice. I miss my shell._

Bella S: _Too bad. I'm keeping it._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **You know what to do. Reviews are better than Gchats with Edward. Extra points if you caught the Great Gatsby reference! ****

**I know I've been quick with the last few updates but I will be traveling next week through the end of July visiting family before CC, so I will not be able to maintain my regular schedule. I will update when I get a chance—no more than two weeks, but probably less.**

**Oh, and jicu were wondering:**

**(_Def:_ Check: in games such as chess, a **check** is the threat to capture the king on the next turn to move. A king so threatened is said to be _in check_)  
><strong>


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: SM owns it all. **

**Thank you to the lovely Mac214 for betaing, as always, and to DiamondHeart78 and Ms. Junkowski for prereading!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10: Teatime <strong>

The night before my tea . . . meeting with Edward, I sat on my couch with a steaming bag of popcorn and a cold beer, wondering whether to tune in for the sixth installation of _America's Hottest Chef_.

On the one hand, it would probably make me more nervous than I already felt. I dreaded the prospect of a sleepless night stretched long before me, and certainly seeing Edward acting like an asshole on the television wouldn't do much to allay my residual misgivings. It still remained to be seen how much of that persona carried over into his real life—and it bothered me that I'd started to consider the possibility that maybe . . . just maybe . . . he wasn't the douchenozzle he appeared.

_Of course we're watching!_ Mom voice shrieked.

_Yes, it's probably a good thing to watch. Always know your enemy,_ Dad voice agreed.

Great, now my parents were even getting along in my head. I considered not watching Edward's show just to spite them, especially as I recalled my most recent conversation with my father and, along with it, the irritation with my mother. If she planned on breaking his heart again . . . I didn't trust her. Not at all.

In the end I pushed those troublesome thoughts aside as my curiosity got the better of me. I flicked to the Food Network; the show had already begun.

Edward paced around the kitchen, looking a bit like a tiger with his wild coppery hair, and just as fierce. The contestants seemed nervous as they worked to meet the challenge. This week they had to prepare and serve a four-course dinner to a party of seven celebrity chefs, including Bobby Flay and Cat Cora, so the pressure was on. In just a couple episodes the vote-offs would begin, the announcer helpfully reminded the viewing audience in a foreboding tone. Jarring camera angles and choppy editing reinforced the frenetic energy in the room, and, not for the first time, I was glad to be cozy at home and not making an ass out of myself on national TV.

PV chirped and jumped up on the couch next to me, sniffing at my bowl. I held out a small kernel of popcorn, and she licked it. The look of disdain she shot at me let me know she had absolutely no interest in such uncouth fare.

"It's no Savory Salmon," I said, discarding the piece. "But hey, we're pretty much covered there." For a year. Maybe two.

When Edward appeared, my attention was drawn back to the show. He had an undeniably compelling presence. It made sense that he'd been given his own program—when he was on the screen, everyone else faded into the background. Except for Zafrina . . . her antics kept her front and center.

"Oh _bleep_!" The censors edited Siobhan's expletive. Usually meek and quiet, the outburst seemed a little out of character until I realized she'd burnt her hand on a hot cast-iron grill pan—pretty badly by the looks of it. While the other cooks scurried around, trying to decide who would take over her station, Edward silently escorted Siobhan to the sink and held her hand under the cold water. The gesture surprised me, and she looked just as shocked, her green eyes widening underneath thick-rimmed glasses as Edward released her.

Just as quickly, his attitude shifted once again.

"This isn't Madagascar," he said with a little sneer, stepping away from her. "You're not messing about with monkeys anymore."

"Ring-tailed lemurs," she whispered. "They're primates, but they're not monkeys."

"Oh, for the love of . . ." He tossed his hands up and sighed loudly before returning to the action. I tried not to laugh but found myself having the same reaction. How in the world had this woman wound up in a kitchen?

That evening I flipped off the television feeling no closer to unraveling the mystery of Edward Cullen. Perhaps whatever happened tomorrow would help shed some light, but I wasn't counting on it.

^_^ AAT ^_^

Edward had given me his address during our Gchat on Friday. It turned out that, while he could usually get around in public without being hounded by the press and paparazzi, fans had a harder time keeping their distance. To ensure our privacy, he'd suggested I come to his place for tea, assuring me that what he had to say would be better conveyed without an audience.

Even though this was certainly NOT a date, I still chose my outfit, a swishy white cotton skirt and wedge sandals, with care, trying not to delve too deeply into my motivations for doing so. I could have walked to Tribeca, but the humid June afternoon would undoubtedly have made me a sweaty mess. And so I hailed a cab with a combined sense of excitement and trepidation.

Situated in one of New York's trendier neighborhoods, Edward's turn of the century boutique apartment building was impressive without being overly ostentatious. The elderly doorman smiled courteously and, when I told him my name, immediately showed me through the unexpectedly retro, painted lobby to the elevator.

Once outside of his third floor apartment, I rang the doorbell once and waited. Nothing. I rang again. An uneasy feeling started to claim me after another minute passed. What if this was a joke on his part? Another trick as payback?

A few more beats went by, and I was just about to turn around when the door opened.

Edward stood in jeans and a blue tee shirt, looking more casual than I'd seen him since the beach. He smiled and leaned against the frame.

"Bella?" he asked, though I was standing right before him.

"Hi," I said, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice. "I didn't think you were home. I rang a few times."

"I didn't hear it." A small frown creased his forehead, and he ran one hand through his hair before leaning down to inspect the doorbell. He pressed it once and nothing happened. "The bloody doorbell is broken. I'm sorry - have you been out here long?"

"Just a minute," I fibbed, though it had been nearly five. I'd been so preoccupied with my own thoughts I hadn't even noticed whether or not the ringer had sounded.

He pressed the doorbell again and sighed, shaking his head. "I suppose I don't have many visitors. I've never even noticed," he said ruefully.

"It's okay," I replied, suddenly overcome with the urge to assuage him. "I should have knocked."

Edward's smile returned, but it seemed more hesitant. "I'm afraid we've got off on the wrong foot . . . again. Will you come in?" He held the door open wider.

Without another word, I stepped into his apartment, finding myself in a sparsely furnished, spacious room, comprised of a joined living and dining area. A floor to ceiling backless bookshelf lined the far wall, filled to capacity with various sized leather bound volumes. Beyond that, large windows let the late afternoon sunlight stream into the apartment, brightening the dark wood trim of the room considerably. Edward led me inside and took my bag from my shoulder, setting it on the chair next to the door.

The air was redolent with enticing spices, and I sniffed, trying to determine what he was cooking. Saffron? It seemed familiar, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

Edward led me to the overstuffed leather sofa. The seating area was arranged around a large wood-burning fireplace.

I couldn't see a TV in the room.

"This is a nice place," I said, taking a seat. Nice was an understatement. I hadn't seen the entire thing, but years of living in New York had taught me a thing or two about real estate. This apartment, though more modest than I had expected, was easily worth five million.

"Thank you." Edward slid into the seat next to me and straightened his legs out in front of him. Goddamn, the man had long legs. I tried not to gawk.

I wanted to ask him about the intoxicating smell, but he beat me to it.

"I'm making paella."

"I thought we were having tea," I replied, feeling suddenly shy.

"We are," he said. "But I'm rarely home and I thought I'd take the time to do a little experimenting while I had the time."

"It smells pretty good," I admitted. My statement seemed to remind him to tend to it. He stood, and my eyes followed him as he padded barefoot toward a large kitchen that was separated from the living area by a marble topped bar. When I didn't follow, he paused and gestured for me to come.

"Let me show you something. You'll appreciate this."

"Okay . . ."

I followed hesitantly, and the delicious aroma got stronger. Edward stood over the stove, peering into a large, funky looking copper paella pan. He stirred the contents lightly, then brought the wooden spoon to his lips, tasting. Seemingly dissatisfied, he reached into the cabinet above and pulled out an unmarked jar of some spice, shaking a bit more into the sauce.

"This recipe was my grandmother's," he said. "It's the first time I've tried it out."

"She was Spanish?" It surprised me. With Edward's fair skin and auburn hair, I'd always thought him pure English.

"French, actually. But she lived in Spain for years."

"Oh." I wondered if she was still alive, if she was the reason he'd gone to culinary school in Paris, but I kept my thoughts to myself. Somehow those questions felt too personal.

Edward went back to stirring and sampled the stew again. He nodded and muttered something, adding a pinch of salt and more of the spice.

I found myself mesmerized by his movements, and he seemed equally unaware of my presence for a minute.

"Smoked paprika," he said, still staring down into the pot.

"I'm sorry?"

He grinned over at me. "That was her secret."

"That's a good idea, actually," I said, moving toward the stove. "But isn't it a little much combined with the saffron?"

Edward nodded as he stirred. "I cut down on the saffron."

From my new vantage point, I could see the steaming rice and meat and, despite the fact I'd already eaten lunch, my mouth watered.

"Is that chicken?"

"Rabbit."

"Mmmm."

"You're not squeamish about it?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm a chef, Edward. Rabbit is one of my favorite meats when it's cooked well."

"Good," he said softly. "Because it's done, and I need a second opinion."

He grabbed a fork, and for a split second I thought he was going to try to feed me. My heart thumped in panic. But then he retrieved a small bowl and, after giving the pot a final stir, spooned some of the paella into it. He watched me as I carefully separated a bit of meat from the bone and speared it along with some rice.

I blew on the bite first, then tasted. Holy shit—it was so good. Perfectly seasoned with just the right amount of saffron, the smokiness of the paprika complimenting the earthy, yet delicate rabbit meat. I might have moaned before remembering who I was with.

Edward's little smile grew into a wide smirk; he was clearly pleased with himself. Show off.

"A success?" he teased. My face grew hot under his stare, and I nodded, passing back the bowl with the rest of its uneaten contents.

"It was okay," I lied, not wanting to stroke his already inflated ego.

He just grinned and took a bite from the same bowl.

"This is pretty fantastic," he said.

"Yeah, your g_randmother _was obviously a very good cook."

My intended barb didn't seem to faze Edward. He just kept eating.

"Maybe that's where I got my talent."

"Hmm . . ." I watched him fork another bite into his mouth. He smiled, turned round, and wrote something down on a sheet of paper located next to the stove. I thought I heard him whisper something like "more red pepper."

Then he turned back to me, raising his eyebrows. They were nice . . . well shaped. Not too thick but manly all the same. Damnit, I'd never found eyebrows attractive before.

"Are you sure you don't want any more?"

"I already ate," I replied hastily, a bit alarmed about my newfound and perverse attraction to facial hair. Edward took my quick reply as rejection, disappointment marring his features. He set the bowl down and turned off the stove.

"Right. Tea then?"

"Okay. But you don't have to go to any trouble . . . I just . . ."

"I hope you don't mind Earl Grey," he said, waving off my protest. "I'm afraid that's all I have."

"Earl Grey is just fine. Thank you." As he made the tea, I waited awkwardly in the kitchen, wondering why he seemed to bring out my unpleasant side, even when it wasn't intended. He'd been nothing but gracious since I arrived, and I'd met his good intentions with snark and indifference. I vowed to be a bit more open minded, to let him say his piece, and then go. Obviously there was something about Edward Cullen that made me defensive, but while I hated to admit it, he also made me feel . . . other things. Things I wasn't ready to feel.

"How long have you lived here?" I asked, my awkward attempt to make conversation painful to my ears.

Aside from a pile of bills on the bar and the food on the stove, the entire place seemed sparse, unlived in. He must have been incredibly busy with the show and the restaurant. I realized I didn't even know where it was or how close it was to being complete.

Edward kicked a cabinet door shut with a _clang_.

"About three months," he said. "But as you can see I haven't had much time to decorate."

"Oh, I thought you just had simple tastes."

"I have. But not this simple."

As we spoke, Edward unwrapped the tea bags. I watched with reserved fascination as he rinsed two cups with boiling water, heating them before he placed the bags inside. Then he poured more water and set the cups aside to steep. His hair fell across his forehead, and for a second, he looked much younger.

"You must be busy."

"Incredibly," he muttered. "We film on Mondays and Tuesdays, and then I'm at the restaurant the rest of the time."

"Where is it?" Suddenly I was filled with questions, but I still felt unsure about my visit. He hadn't even brought up the initial reason he'd given for inviting me.

"In Queens."

"What?" I was surprised. Most celebrity chefs kept their establishments strictly in Brooklyn and Manhattan—that way, they were guaranteed the wealthiest clientele.

"In Astoria. It's a beautiful space."

"What kind of food?"

"Modern British cuisine . . . kind of like a gastropub but a little fancier."

"More gastro and less pub?" I offered.

Edward grinned. "Sort of. Yes."

"So how is it, anyway, being famous and all?"

"It's . . . interesting."

"Interesting?"

He removed the teabags from the water and discarded them. "Milk or lemon?" he asked. I wasn't sure if he was avoiding my question.

"No, black is fine."

He nodded, turning toward me with the cups in his hands. "Let's sit."

Rather than returning to the more intimate setting of the couch, Edward settled on a stool at the bar, and I took a seat next to him. He slid my cup to me and I looked down at the perfectly brewed tea, wondering where the conversation would go next.

"Bella," he said. "You're probably wondering why I asked you here."

"I'm assuming it wasn't for the paella."

"No," he said, sliding the cup away from him. He turned to face me, swiveling around in the chair and clasping his hands together. "I wanted to talk to you. I've . . . thought about what you said, at Jane's and in your email." He seemed nervous, the relaxed façade he'd worn since I'd arrived slipping. "Bloody hell, I'm no good at this," he muttered.

"What are you trying to say?" I asked.

When he met my eyes again, I saw shame reflected back at me.

"I made you feel like dirt," he said, pronouncing the last word like "duht." If not for the context, it would have been endearing. "I never meant to do that."

"What? That doesn't make sense." I tried to keep my tone even, not hostile. His words didn't match with his actions . . . at least, not his past actions.

"Bella, when I met you," Edward began, leaning his arm against the bar, "I thought you were beautiful." He glanced up, then down to the cup of tea in my hands. "You seemed interested in me, too. When I told you I was leaving in a week, you accepted it."

"True. But that . . ."

Edward placed his hand on my arm. The touch only lasted a second, but it confused me. I couldn't even remember what I was about to say. I resented the way he could disarm me so easily.

"I'm not trying to make excuses. Just hear me out."

"Okay."

"I never expected to care for you. And when I did . . . it didn't fit in with my plan."

"Your plan?" I almost scoffed but kept myself in check. My mind still reverberated with his words . . . _care for me_?

"Yes. This . . . ," he gestured around. "This was my plan. Well, I didn't exactly want the celebrity. I wanted success, though. Nothing would have gotten in the way of that. I had to prove . . ."

Even as he tried to be specific, I found his words frustrating. Obtuse, even. Prove what, and to whom?

"What are you trying to say—that I was an obstacle to your success?" The disbelief in my voice rang through the silent room.

Edward sighed. "When you say it like that, it sounds . . ."

"Ridiculous?"

He grimaced slightly and turned his gaze back to his cup. I did the same. Suddenly it was the most fascinating thing on earth. I took a sip and tried to think of what to say next.

"But I don't understand," I said, watching the steam rise. "It's not like I was planning our wedding, for God's sake. We'd just met. I liked you . . . a lot, but I had no claim on you. And when you just left without even saying goodbye . . . disconnecting your phone? I mean, geez, what was I supposed to think. It came off like you hated me."

His eyes snapped back to mine.

"No. You couldn't be farther from the truth. I was afraid of myself, Bella.

"When I left you that day, I had every intention of coming back the next, as we planned. But when I got home . . . I couldn't imagine saying goodbye. I found myself thinking about a future with you—a future that would never have worked, given the distance. But I knew if I saw you again, I'd want to make a go of it. We'd both have been miserable in the end."

As he spoke, his leg jumped almost imperceptibly. I struggled to wrap my head around what he was saying.

"And so you just left."

"It was easier."

"For _you_," I said. "Let me get this straight. You left without saying goodbye because you had feelings for me, and you were afraid of what that mean for your 'success', as you term it." I air-quoted for emphasis, and Edward nodded, his expression falling.

"Well, that's one of the most selfish things I've ever heard."

"I know. I was a bloody fool. I'm sorry."

"What did you think I was going to do - lock you up in the basement or something? Geez, Edward."

I couldn't take being in the room anymore with a man who'd so carelessly disregarded not only my feelings, but also his own. It was almost better when I'd thought I meant nothing to him. What kind of person does something like that to someone they care about? And now he was just apologizing because I'd made a fuss over it. Just like I feared, he probably thought I'd spent the past six years pining over him, and now felt guilty. All the emotions overwhelmed me. I had to get out of the room. I stood.

"Don't go," he said, rising when he noticed my movement. His mouth opened slightly, like he didn't know what to say . . . like he really didn't want me to leave. "Please."

"Why?" I asked. "I don't know what else you want from me. I'm sorry, but I don't need your guilty apology or your pity. I know it must look like I've been pining for you or something all these years, but nothing could be further than the truth. I'm seeing someone. Someone special," I said, thanking God I could play the Emmett card again to preserve at least some of my dignity. Was he my beard? I decided I'd have to Google it later.

"Bella, I . . ."

"You don't need to apologize just because you think you've caused me some sort of irreparable wound. It's not like I . . ."

Edward caught my arm as I turned to go, gently tugging me towards him. Strangely enough, I let him. But I couldn't look him in the eye.

"You're wrong. I don't feel that way at all. I've always regretted that decision, Bella. But I never thought I'd see you again—that you'd want to see me. I certainly didn't expect . . . "

I scoffed, but my disgust was geared towards myself as I thought about the PV stunt. If I'd never done that, I'd have been spared this humiliation. "You didn't expect a cat daughter - I get it. That was a little over the top. Okay, a lot. I shouldn't have done it."

Edward surprised me by chuckling. "Actually, once I stopped being pissed off, I thought it was kind of funny." My eyes widened as he continued. "I'd love to know how you came up with such a thing."

I looked up at him, noticing the sides of his eyes crinkling with amusement.

"Believe me, you don't."

"Maybe another time then. I would like to see our daughter at some point," he teased gently.

"So you remember giving PV to me." As I said her name, I made a mental note never to tell Edward the origin of her name . . . he'd never known I named her after him to begin with and now . . . now it would be far too humiliating. It would just about prove everything I'd set to deny.

"Of course." He scratched the side of his face, and I tried not to remember how his fingers had once touched me so intimately. But it was hard to forget with him standing so close.

"I told you I didn't have a good excuse, but I am sorry. And I don't pity you, if that's what you think. I'm . . . you're . . ."

"Mad?" I asked, echoing his words from before.

"A little bit," he said with a smile. "But in a good way. No, what I was going to say is . . . you're different than I remember."

"I'm not so naïve."

"That's not what I meant. Hell . . . I don't know what I mean." From the way the side of his mouth turned upward, I had a feeling I might not want to know. Or maybe I did? Then he said something that surprised me. "You're real."

Both of us watched as he extended his hand. The breath caught in my throat as it hung in midair, nearly grazing my hair before dropping to his side in a clenched fist.

"Of course I'm real," I muttered.

"Sometimes I thought I imagined you."

I laughed mirthlessly. "You didn't."

"Things don't feel very real lately." In the past few minutes, his cocky bravado had all but vanished. So was _this_ the real Edward or another show? He seemed so utterly sincere. But still, what did that mean?

"Edward," I said, "I'm not sure what you want from me. But I can't be your touchstone to reality. This is your life . . . the life you've created. If you don't like it, only you can change it."

"I know that." He shoved his fidgety hands in his pockets. "I don't expect you to change my life. But I could use a friend."

"A friend?"

"Yes," he said, his tone serious. I tried to ignore the proximity of his body to mine, but it was impossible. I stepped backward to regain some of my personal space. Dangerous. Edward Cullen was still a danger to me. "I'd like to be . . . normal again. I don't know anyone anymore from my old life. Except my parents, and they . . ."

He trailed off, his eyes growing distant. When he looked back at me, his expression was grim. "The people I associate with . . . I never know what they want. My money, my fame, my cock."

Holy shit, did he just say _cock_? He just said cock.

"What makes you think I'm so much different?" I certainly didn't want his money or fame. But the last option . . . NO! _NO, Bella._

"You are."

"How can you be so sure?"

"I'm sure. If you wanted any of those things, you wouldn't have . . ."

"Done everything in my power to alienate you?"

"Yes. No one has spoken to me so frankly, well, in years. It's refreshing."

"So all you really want is someone to trash talk you. Maybe you could hire one of those scary motivational speaker guys that go to juvenile detention centers and scare the crap out of kids."

Edward laughed.

"I know I'm a bastard. But I don't want to be. I don't have to be . . . with you. Because if I am, you'll tell me."

"I'm not Henry Higgins, Edward. I can't teach you how to not be an asshole. I'm an asshole myself half of the time."

The little smirk on his face told me he didn't entirely disagree. "And I'm no Eliza Doolittle."

"No, you're not," I admitted, looking away from his green, green eyes. How the hell had we started talking about _My Fair Lady_?

We stood silently for a moment; I was trying to process everything that had happened in the last fifteen minutes. Edward wanted me to be his friend?

"I don't know you," I said softly. "I can't tell when you're being sincere or not. One moment you're being interviewed, saying things like you've never really cared for anyone, and the next, you're all . . . " I trailed off, not willing to go further. True, he had shown himself capable of niceness, even sweetness, but I still didn't trust him.

Edward sighed dramatically. "You saw that interview, huh?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry. Shit, I . . ."

"Me too. To be honest, that was one of the reasons I did . . . what I did."

His eyes had become more guarded. "You must realize all of that was bollocks."

"All of it? The host had the pictures to prove it. And I've seen quite a few myself."

Edward looked at me sheepishly. "Yes, well . . . there have been women. But it's not as bad as you think. Shows like that are out to get ratings. Sometimes they exaggerate the truth."

"I do happen to recall you were the one doing most of the _supposed _exaggeration," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Yes, well. It's all part of the job," he continued before I could respond, reaching out to touch my arm. "You know me better than you think you do."

"And you want us to be friends," I said, restating his proposition.

He nodded, his smile returning. "I'd like that." He held out his hand, and when I took it, a flash of warmth radiated through my body.

"Friends?"

"Let me show you I'm only a part-time douchenozzle."

What was I getting myself into?

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><p>AN: Thank you all so much for reading and for your kind reviews. I really appreciate hearing your thoughts. How did you think tea went?

Next week, I won't be posting due to Comic Con. I will hopefully have the next chapter up in two weeks' time, and then I'll be back to my regular, once-a-week schedule.

Last, An Acquired Taste is up for Best New Story at the Shimmer Awards! My other story, A Quiet Fire, is up for the Romance Award as well. Please take a minute of time to vote for your favorites. There are some wonderful stories nominated in all categories. :-D

http:/shimmerawards(dot)blogspot(dot)com/p/vote(dot)html


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: SM owns it all. Lucky h00r!**

**A/N: Thank you to my dearest Mac214 for betaing and to the lovely DiamondHeart78, BellaFlan, and Ms. Junkowski for their awesome pre-reading skillz.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 11: New Friends?<strong>

Emmett's wide, toothy grin greeted me at the office Wednesday morning—a grin that screamed he'd just gotten laid.

"I'm running out for a minute. Coffee?" he asked, practically bouncing in the doorway. I hadn't seen him this peppy since he had a threesome with a couple of bodybuilders after the Puerto Rican Pride parade. Why he needed coffee, I had no idea.

"Are you going to the 'Bucks?"

"Yes'm."

I cocked my head to the side, eyeing him quizzically, and he just kept smiling.

"Sure. A large with cream, then. Thanks."

"A Venti?" he teased. He knew how much I hated Starbucks' pretentious nomenclature.

I grimaced and waved him off. "Yeah, that."

Emmett slapped his hand on the side of the door before turning on his heel.

"Back in a jiff," he called over his shoulder.

It had only been three days since my visit to Edward's, and I still didn't know what to make of his unexpected and somewhat baffling revelations, especially his offer of friendship. While his apology had been sincere, I still didn't fully trust him.

Clearly, he was unhappy, or at least dissatisfied, with the path his life had taken since we last met, but I had no idea whether or not it was just a passing discontentment. If we became friends and he decided to cast me off, I'd be back in the same position, only now I'd have no one to blame but myself.

But as we had parted on Sunday, he looked . . . lonely—like he really wanted me to stay. He'd asked me to come by his restaurant sometime soon, but we hadn't made any specific plans since both of our schedules were so full. I wanted to see it . . . I had a strange feeling it might offer some additional clue about him.

Just as I began to wonder when I'd hear from Edward again, or if I should make a gesture towards him, Emmett returned carrying two large coffees. He set one on my desk, and I picked it up, removing the lid and blowing the hot liquid gently. Apparently, I took my coffee like I took my men. I'd been burned before, and I didn't like to take any chances.

Instead of returning to his desk, Emmett sat opposite me, taking a sip of his coffee and looking at me like an expectant puppy. He'd been like this all week, but every time I asked about it his answers had been evasive.

"When are you going to spill?" I asked, using my best authoritative voice. From what he'd told me, Emmett liked to be dominated in the sack, so I figured it was the best way to get him to talk. Turns out, he didn't need much prodding after all.

"He loves me," Emmett said, fiddling with his lid.

"Who?" I asked, surprised. As far as I knew, Emmett hadn't been seeing anyone seriously since . . . then it hit me. "Oh shit. Jacob?"

Emmett nodded and smiled so widely I could practically make out his molars.

"What the fuck! Dude! Tell me everything."

What followed was a story so sweet I almost vomited a little in my mouth, though of course I was thrilled.

A couple days after he had saved the day during the illegal cheese incident, Jacob had unexpectedly called Emmett and asked him out for dinner. The two of them went to some fancy little bistro in Chelsea, and then wound up staying out for a couple of drinks and talking well into the night. It seems that for the past few months, Jake had been seeing a therapist to work through some of his issues regarding his sexuality. He'd finally come out to his parents, and he wanted Emmett back . . . if Emmett would give him another chance.

"So what did you do?

"I took him home, obviously." Emmett said, staring at me as if I'd grown a third eye on my forehead. "And we fucked like bunnies. You know, he really loves it when I stick my tongue—"

"TMI! TMI!" I called out, not really wanting to know where Emmett's tongue had been, since it'd also recently dueled with mine. I made a mental note to bleach my gums.

"Sorry," he said, dimples forming with a sheepish smile.

"And you're sure he's ready? You're not worried?"

Emmett shrugged, taking a sip of his coffee. "I love him, too."

"So you guys are a couple now?"

"Yep."

Emmett stared at his coffee cup with a dreamy look on his face, and I set my drink down. If anyone deserved happiness, Emmett did. I'd never seen him so worked up about a guy before. Jake must be it.

"Then I'm really happy for you, Em. That's awesome. Jake's a good guy."

Emmett waggled his eyebrows. "I know. And hot."

"That too."

"And he has real handcuffs."

"Handcuffs are an added bonus."

"Thanks, woman," he said, more seriously now. "I wanted to tell you before, but I didn't want to jinx it."

"It's fine," I said, sighing and leaning back in my chair. "So does this mean you won't be my fake boyfriend anymore?"

Emmett regarded me skeptically. "You still haven't told Edward?"

"No."

"Bella . . ." His voice took on a tone uncomfortably close to my dad's.

"I know, I know. It's stupid. I just . . . I don't know."

"If you guys are going to be friends, he's going to find out you're single soon enough."

"Yeah . . ."

"So what happens when he figures out you lied?"

"I . . ."

"Haven't thought about that, have you?"

"Uh . . ."

My stuttering gave me away. True, I hadn't thought about the consequences of Edward discovering my fib. But something warned me to stay guarded around him, and having Emmett as a buffer made me feel safer.

Noticing my wide-eyed stare, Emmett's demeanor softened.

"I'll be your fake boyfriend as long as you need me."

**^_^ AAT ^_^**

The rest of the day passed in a flurry of activity, so I hardly had another moment to think about Edward. We had a tasting that evening for potential wedding clients and Rose and I pulled out all the stops, personally preparing our most popular entrée selections for the future brides and grooms to sample. These days were always the most nerve-wracking for my perfectionist tendencies. I wanted my clients to taste the best we offered, but I was often disappointed when people preferred the more traditional wedding food. Chicken piccata and beef tenderloin still ruled the roost, so to speak, at most catered functions.

We'd booked ten clients by the end of the night. By the time I made it home, I contemplated just falling into bed in my work clothes. But there was a cat to be fed, and she made her demands known by rubbing up against me, purring loudly.

"Okay, okay. I know it's late," I said as she wove between my legs. I grabbed a can of the never-ending supply of Savory Salmon from the cupboard and forked it into her dish, wrinkling my nose in distaste. PV immediately began scarfing down her dinner, and I was rendered invisible by the grotesque fish mélange.

Just before I fell into an exhaustion-induced coma, I decided to check my email in case there was something important that needed my attention. Not that I expected anything from Edward. _Of course._ I sighed sarcastically at the part of me that clapped its hands in glee when there was, indeed, a note from him in my inbox.

_To: Isabella Swan_

_From: Edward Cullen_

_Subject: Hello, Friend_

_Bella,_

_How are you? It's been a mad week here for me. We just wrapped up taping for next week's show, and I was thinking of you on my way home. I haven't had much time to spare lately, and I know you're a busy woman, but I'd love to have you stop by the restaurant sometime if you like. We're in the middle of decorating, and I could do with an impartial opinion. And of course I'd like to see you again. _

_So, if you can tear yourself away from the wild world of New York catering, let me know when you're free. _

_Oh, and don't be shy about asking me for the paella recipe. I know you liked it. _

_Best,_

_Edward _

Ha! I'd never give him the satisfaction of asking for that recipe. The time stamp of the email was only a few minutes before; Edward's green light was on. Rather than reply by email, I decided to send him a message.

Bella S: _The paella was decent, but I have my own recipe. _

E. Cullen: _I see you received my email._

Bella S: _Yep. Just got home from work._

E. Cullen: _My poor grandmother. She's probably rolling in her grave, unable to achieve her final rest because of my poor imitation of her masterpiece. _

Bella S: _Way to lay on the guilt. Fine. I liked it. _

E. Cullen: _I know._

Bella S: _You are insufferable._

E. Cullen: _So I've been told._

Bella S: _And I'll have you know that the life of a New York caterer is pretty crazy._

E. Cullen: _I never doubted that._

Bella S: _Hmm. I detected a note of sarcasm in your email._

E. Cullen: _Did you?_

Bella S: _Sarcasm again._

E. Cullen: _Sorry. I'm afraid the email format brings it out in me. I've often thought there should be a font for indicating ironic statements so as to avoid confusion. _

His words made me smile despite myself. I'd had the same idea.

Bella S: _Me too!_

E. Cullen: _We should create one. We'd make a million dollars._

Bella S: _And give up cooking? _

E. Cullen: _Not a chance. Speaking of which, what do you say to coming by sometime? _

Bella S: _My days are pretty full. I could do Sunday again. _

E. Cullen: _I'm out of town this weekend. Thursday evening?_

Bella S: _You mean tomorrow?_

I tried to think about what I had to do the following day; I guessed I could get out early if necessary. My curiosity about his new establishment only increased with the potential of seeing it first hand.

E. Cullen: _Or I guess technically today, since it's after midnight._

Bella S: _Crap! I need to get to sleep. I can probably swing tomorrow night. Is 7:00 okay? _

E. Cullen: _That works for me. I'll be there all day. _

Bella S: Okay. _Well, I guess I'll see you then._

E. Cullen: _You guess?_

Bella S: _You prefer a more definitive answer. I will see you then. How's that?_

E. Cullen:_ Preferable. Oh, and bring a change of clothes that you don't care about getting dirty. _

Bella S: _Are you putting me to work?_

E. Cullen: _I would like to exploit your free labour, yes._

Bella S: _Goodnight, Edward._

E. Cullen: _Goodnight._

**^_^ AAT ^_^**

I hopped in a cab at a little past six the following evening, figuring I should leave early to account for rush hour. After getting stuck in traffic on the Queensboro, we shot up Vernon towards Astoria and before I knew it, I found myself deposited on the corner of Ditmars and 19th. Edward's place was situated right next to a bustling Greek restaurant I'd heard good things about but hadn't yet tried. I walked by the open-air patio inhabited by loud and gregarious customers speaking in various tongues and found myself in front of a building with papered-over windows. The recessed door was propped open with a piece of wood, and when I pushed it gently, the not entirely unpleasant smell of acrylic paint filled my nostrils. I peeked inside.

On the right hand of the room towards the back, a long bar covered in sheets flanked one wall. While there were no tables in the place yet, I figured the rather intimate space would probably seat about thirty heads in addition to the bar. The brick interior, combined with dark wood accents, made for a rather cozy space, but it was clear that a lot of work still had to be done. There was a giant hole in the ceiling to the left of the bar that screamed water damage, and the walls that were not brick still needed painting. But I could see that, once it was finished, the effect would be beautiful.

As I stood loitering by the half-opened door, Edward emerged from the kitchen, a smile spreading over his face as he spied me.

"Hello," he said with a little wave. "Glad you could make it."

His clothes were covered in off-white paint, and I tried not to notice how the worn fabric of his shirt clung to his well-developed shoulders. One of his jeans legs was torn at the knee. As he approached with slow, long strides, my insides did a funny clenching thing. I tried to tamp it down, but the feeling persisted, flustering me for a moment.

"Yeah, well. I told you I'd be here, and I'm a woman of my word," I said in a rush, unslinging my bag from my shoulder. Edward stopped advancing when he was about three feet away, his eyes darting to the bag and then back up to mine.

"You brought extra clothes?"

"Yes . . ."

"Great. I just started cleaning out the deep fry. You're more than welcome to take over." he said, a teasing glint in his eyes. I stared at him blankly, not sure if he was joking since it was hard to believe that Edward would settle for a used fryer in his new kitchen. "I'm joking, Bella. I'd never subject you to such a menial task."

"Okay, well, what mighty tasks do you need my assistance with, then?"

"I thought you might help me set some rat traps. I can't seem to get the bloody things to work," he deadpanned.

"Ha."

"I'm completely serious."

"You're such an ass."

"Better an ass than a douchenozzle."

"That remains to be seen," I said, crossing my arms over my chest.

He grinned and beckoned with a curl of his long fingers, seemingly ignorant of my self-protective stance. "How about a tour?"

For the next half hour, Edward gave me the grand tour of his establishment. The kitchen was large and filled with new equipment that gleamed despite the thin coat of drywall dust. I soon found myself drawn in, watching with interest as he displayed his toys with boyish enthusiasm. Though it was clear he was showing off a little, it wasn't so much annoying as it was dangerously endearing. As someone with the same passion, I could really understand his vision for the place as he described it. I found my initial hesitance about the visit wearing off.

"And this!" he said, dragging me by the arm. "Wait until you see the walk-in."

It wasn't much different than any other I'd seen, but Edward seemed as proud as a new father, pointing out the storage spaces he'd designed for the various and sundry perishables that would soon fill it.

Once we'd explored every nook and corner, Edward unveiled our task for the rest of the evening, which, I was pleased to discover, didn't involve rats. I changed clothes quickly and met him back in the kitchen, where he smiled at my old t-shirt and faded yoga pants. I instantly regretted not having packed something cuter, and then decided it was better not to look like I was trying too hard.

"Don't you have people for this stuff?" I asked, dipping my sponge into the bucket filled with warm, soapy water and running it over the stovetop while Edward wiped down the convection oven in a similar manner.

"Yes, but I've found I'm often displeased with the results unless I do it myself."

"That's a bit OCD."

"A bit," he admitted with a small shrug. "But what chef isn't?"

I nodded, swiping at the thin layer of grime. "I guess you're right." I tended to micromanage at work myself, though I tried to trust my staff and rein in those tendencies. We worked in silence for a few minutes until I broke it with a question I'd long wanted the answer to.

"So, why New York?" I asked.

"Hmm?" Edward seemed confused by the question.

"You already have a restaurant in London. Why not open another one there?"

Edward nodded thoughtfully, his green eyes focusing on something I couldn't see. Damn, they were such pretty eyes—a deeper green than I remembered from the beach. I tore mine away, waiting for his response.

"I've always loved it here. Being in the States for college was the best time of my life. And I wanted to expand . . . sometimes London feels too small."

"I've never been."

"Sometimes you need to get away from the place you were born," he muttered, wringing out the dirty water from his sponge. "And then there was the show. It was . . . an offer I couldn't refuse."

I laughed at his terrible _Godfather_ impersonation but sensed there was something else to his words—a hidden seriousness. I decided to press the issue a little further.

"Why not?"

"I needed the money," he said simply.

"What, do you owe a bookie or something?"

"Worse. My father."

"Oh."

That summer in North Carolina, I'd only seen Edward's parents from afar. He hadn't seemed very eager for us to meet, which I'd long understood as his reticence to introduce them to a casual fling. He'd never really spoken about them, even when I'd gone on and on about my crazy childhood.

"So he lent you money?"

He sighed. "Do you really want to hear about this? It's terribly boring and predictable."

"Try me."

"My father comes from a very wealthy family," Edward began, wringing out his sponge. "When he sent me to uni in America, he thought I'd become a barrister like him. I took a lot of things for granted, accepted his money for my tuition. But I hated it." He shook his head at the memory, dumping out the bucket and refilling it with fresh, soapy water. "I wanted to be a chef. When I graduated I told my parents I wasn't going to go on to law school."

"And they were angry?" I asked, completely ignoring the way his back muscles moved with the effort of lifting the bucket and setting it on the floor. Damn him, he must have a personal trainer or something.

"My father was. It was my mother who encouraged him to lend me the money for culinary school and then, when I graduated, to start Mix. When he left her soon after that, I vowed to pay him back every penny I'd ever taken. Turns out I'd taken quite a lot." He said the last few words wryly, frown lines creasing his brow.

"So have you? Paid him back?"

"Every penny. Of course I think it wounded his pride. He'd have been pleased if I was still obligated to him." He muttered something else that I couldn't quite make out as he busily attacked a persistent spot of grime.

This explained a little of Edward's drive to succeed, no matter what the cost. Even though my parents could be nuts, at least they were always proud of me. From the look on Edward's face, I sensed his accomplishments hadn't improved relations with his dad.

"But now he must be proud of you," I offered, "what with you being America's Hottest Chef and all."

"I've stopped trying to impress my father," Edward said with a frustrated sigh. "Enough about my uninteresting daddy issues. What about you? Ever thought about opening up your own place?"

I gave the stove a final swipe, satisfied with my work as the chrome gleamed under the harsh fluorescents.

"I have my own place."

"Of course. I'm not . . . I meant . . . " Edward seemed abashed, as he should be. It wasn't the first time I'd heard it insinuated that catering was beneath the standards of accomplished chefs. It was a bias I tried hard to disprove in my work.

"A restaurant. Yeah, I know. I've thought about it . . . but I don't know. I like catering. We have an established client base now. It's safe. I don't have a fancy degree like . . . " I bit my tongue, but it was too late. The "you" already hung in the air like a barb. Thankfully, Edward didn't seem affronted.

"Your food is excellent. You don't need a fancy degree," he said. "I don't think being good at cooking is something you can learn, anyway. You have to find joy in it, and that's something you're either born with not."

"I agree."

"And are your parents supportive of you?"

"Yeah, they've always been supportive. My mother and I aren't very close, but I'm close to my dad. He's . . ." I trailed off, my thoughts returning again to my crazy parents and their reconnection. I hadn't heard from either of them since that phone call from my father, and I had no idea what the status was, if my mother had visited him or not . . . if they were . . . gross.

"Bella?" Edward's pretty voice startled me out of my reverie.

"Sorry. I . . . ugh."

"I lost you there for a second." His smile returned, showing off his straight white teeth.

I tried to think of a way to describe the situation in terms that didn't make me sound like a petulant child, even though I sort of felt like one.

"You said your parents were divorced?"

"Yes."

"And your father left your mother?"

Edward's expression hardened. "Yes," he replied tersely. I hopped up on the counter next to where he was still working and continued.

"Well, imagine if he decided he wanted her back. Imagine if right now, somewhere, they were potentially knockin' da boots."

"Does that strange American phrase mean what I think it does?"

"Yes. How would you feel?"

Edward grimaced. "I suppose I'd be angry. I wouldn't trust his intentions."

"Yeah. Well, that's pretty much my parents in a nutshell."

He dropped his dirty sponge in the bucket and leaned towards me. He smelled like greasy water and man soap . . . oh, how I missed the smell of man soap. I decided right then and there I needed a prolonged date with my vibrator once I got home, since apparently I was the horniest bitch in Manhattan.

"You know what this calls for?" he asked.

"What?"

"A nice pint."

His proximity discombobulated my mind. I tried to think rationally.

_YES! A drink would be excellent!_ Mom voice screeched excitedly. _Let's get drunk and make out a little!_

_No. Absolutely not, _Dad voice said. At least it was good to know they were no longer on the same page. _You have work in the morning, and it's a week night._

_Make out!_

Both voices seemed equally compelling, but I decided Dad voice was probably right, especially given my track record with drinking and Edward-related activities.

"Um . . . " I hopped down and retreated to a safe distance. "It's getting late. I should get going."

"Of course," Edward replied. He gently ran his fingers over the counter where I'd just been sitting. I hoped he was feeling for my residual body heat.

_No. I didn't. _

_Yes, definitely time to go. _

"Another time, then." Edward smiled again, the action lighting up his eyes. Ah, he was certainly the most attractive male friend I'd ever had. Better not tell Emmett.

"Yeah, sure."

The two of us stood awkwardly for a moment before I remembered what the heck I was about to do. Leave. Right.

"Thanks for showing me your place," I said, since Edward was keeping the name of his restaurant top secret until just before it opened.

"Thanks for coming. And for your help with all this." He smiled and motioned towards the wet and gleaming appliances.

"I actually had fun," I confessed, grabbing my bag and hoisting it up on my shoulder.

"You sound surprised."

"I am. A little."

"That's good. I like to surprise you."

My breath hitched a little with the perception that he was flirting. Wasn't he? But just as soon as the thought occurred to me, Edward gestured towards the exit.

"I'll walk you out."

Our goodbyes at the door were brief, friendly. Edward mentioned again that he'd be away for the weekend, and I wondered if he was going somewhere alone or with a woman. I didn't ask, knowing I probably wouldn't like the answer.

We didn't make any additional plans, but that was normal for friends. Right? Still, as I walked down the street to hail a cab, I found myself wondering when I'd see him again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sorry about the delayed posting; I'm going to try and get back to my regular schedule as soon as possible. Next chapter in about a week, but I'll check in on Twitter.**

**Let me know what you think!  
><strong>

**And check out my blog (link available on my profile) for some very cute and sexy Chefward/Chefella manips by the lovely Lolypop82. **

**Last, Roselover24 interviewed me over on her blog. The awesome and hilarious pics she chose to go along with it make it decidedly NSFW. http:/sytycw(dot)blogspot(dot)com/2011/07/sue-interview-with-magnolia822-about(dot).html?zx=146ab511618ed9fe**


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: SM owns it all.**

**A/N: Thanks to mah ladies, Mac214, super-beta, and pre-readers DiamondHeart78 and Ms Junkowski, who catch their share of my errors too! **

**I know this is early; consider it a present to make up for my delay while I was on vacation. Next update will truly be at least a week. **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 12: Developments<br>**

_There's nothing wrong with sitting on the couch and eating stinky cheese on a Saturday night_, I told myself as I grabbed a hunk of it from the fridge and headed back to the living room.

My trigger finger itched to turn on the television, but I knew if I did I'd watch Edward's show. Though I tried not to think about him and what—or who—he was doing, wherever he was, the cheese didn't help. Just as my willpower seemed ready to snap as nine o'clock approached and _America's Hottest Chef_ beckoned, Rose called me up.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I have big plans. Big plans tonight," I replied wryly.

"You're in your pjs, aren't you?"

"Maybe."

"Well, get off your ass, my friend. I just broke up with Demetri, and I need me some girl time."

If I knew Rose, and I did, girl time really meant going to the club and hitting on cute boy time.

"Okay. Just give me a minute."

Rose and I shared a cab downtown, and she filled me in on the breakup. Apparently the initial spark had faded, and since he barely spoke English and she didn't speak Greek at all, their relationship hadn't exactly been deep to begin with. As always, she seemed to be taking the end of her romance in stride, flirting shamelessly with the bartender and earning the appreciative stares of most of the men at the club.

Emmett and Jacob were apparently holed up in their love den getting reacquainted, so we found ourselves out sans Em for the first time in months. I missed my fake gay boyfriend.

Rose had another surprise for me—one I hadn't been expecting at all.

"I've been offered a position at _Bon Appetit_."

"What!" I exclaimed, nearly snorting a cocktail through my nose. Being a food writer was Rose's dream, but the incredibly competitive jobs were nearly impossible to come by. "Are you for real?"

Rose regarded me carefully, pressing her lips to the rim of her glass and taking a small sip before replying.

"I'm sorry. I didn't tell you because I was sure it wasn't going anywhere. I applied on a whim and could hardly believe it when I got the callback yesterday. I got the job. I got it." Her words came out softly, and I could see the disbelief in her eyes—the excitement.

"Holy shit." My mind whirred with the ramifications of this new development. I knew what she wasn't saying—that she wanted to leave _La Vie_.

"I know. Listen," Rose said, reaching out her hand to touch my arm. "I'd still be based in New York, but the job requires a lot of travel. I won't take it if you don't want me to. Leaving you with the business is . . . I know it's a lot to take on."

Even as she uttered the words, I could see the idea of not taking the job was painful. What kind of friend would I be to deny her? And lately I'd been running most of the business myself anyway.

"Well, I guess we should call Emmett," I said with a dramatic sigh.

"Emmett? Why?" Her eyes widened.

"To tell him about his promotion."

"His prom—what?"

I smiled a little as recognition slowly dawned on her face.

"Are you saying what I think you are?"

My smile widened and I clinked my glass against hers. "I'm gonna buy you out, bitch, but you've got another thing coming if you think I'm gonna do all your work!"

"Oh my God! Bella! I fucking love you!"

She leapt up from her stool and tackle-hugged me, her massive boobs nearly suffocating me in the process. I pulled away, laughing even though my heart hurt. Rose and I started together, and now she was leaving—moving on. A lump formed in my throat, and I blinked back tears.

"I love you too, you crazy whore. You better give _La Vie_ a good write up, or I'll kick your ass."

"You know it. Bella, you're the best fucking friend in the world," she said sincerely, tears forming in her blue eyes. "I swear to God. You hear that, God? Bella is the best friend in the friggin' world!" she shouted at the ceiling, her voice drowned out by the sound of the thumping club music.

"We are so drunk and stupid." I wiped at my face, trying to rid it of watery mascara.

"That's true."

I hugged her again and bought us a round of celebratory drinks, trying to keep my spirits high. But inside I felt like I'd suddenly lost not one, but both of my best friends.

**^_^ AAT ^_^**

Back at work the next week, my mood had improved, but only slightly. Rose and I met on Monday to work out the details of the buy-out, or, as Emmett had come to term it, the "Great Slut Takeover of 2011."

He had a flair for the dramatic.

We decided that she'd stay until the end of June, which would give her plenty of time to train Emmett and handle all the paperwork before her job began in July. At the end of the day, an exultant Rose, a lovesick Emmett, and a weary Bella headed for home. Yes, I'd taken to speaking about myself in the third person.

When I finally neared my apartment I was ready for pajamas and a marathon Buffy viewing, but a package on my stoop drew my attention. I bent down and picked it up, noting it wasn't postmarked. The note was handwritten in now familiar script.

_Dear Bella,_

_Hello there, friend. I didn't want to presume, but I stopped by quickly on my way home from the studio to bring you this. You weren't home (obviously)._

_At any rate, this past weekend I was in Napa making some deals with vintners for the restaurant, and when I tasted this I thought of you. Hope you enjoy it._

_Edward. _

My heart did that clenchy thing. That very troublesome, inconvenient, not-at-all-friendly clenchy thing. _Edward had been here? How long ago? _I found myself wishing I'd been home earlier in order to receive the gift in person. But my pleasure at the present was quickly tamped down by other, less pleasant thoughts.

The short note did little to allay my suspicion about Edward leaving for the weekend with a woman. We were just friends, and a woman could very well have gone along with him to help with the . . . tasting. Napa was a very romantic location, after all, and people mixed business with pleasure all the time. I thought of Athena the glamazon princess and cringed. Hopefully, he hadn't been with her.

But he thought of me. He came here to deliver the wine. Though he couldn't have known I'd had such a shitty weekend, it was exactly what I needed. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . Edward wouldn't be such a bad friend after all. And_ friends_ was all we would be—could be.

I took the package inside and opened it, disregarding PV's plaintive meows for dinner. Edward had left me a bottle of Grace Family Cab—a vintage I'd never tried. Curious, I fired up my computer; a quick Google search told me the bottle was worth four hundred bucks. Not exactly small change, but then again, Edward had also sent me a thousand dollars in subsequently confiscated cheese, not to mention the lifetime supply of cat food that currently overran my apartment.

I decided to have a glass.

Once I'd opened the bottle and let it breathe a bit, I ferreted out some sharp, tangy blue cheese from the fridge, grabbed a box of crackers, and headed to the living room for said Buffy marathon.

The episode I chose wound up depressing me, even though I'd wanted Buffy and Angel to sleep together for fucking ever. What a shitty curse—to turn into a monster just for loving someone. I flicked off the TV in disgust and got up to pour myself a little more wine, regretting that I'd opened it tonight. There was no way I'd finish the bottle myself, and it seemed a shame to waste it.

As I padded back to the living room to find myself a book to read until I got tired, my computer alerted me with a "ping."

It was Edward on Gchat. I smiled at his message.

E Cullen: _Hello? Anyone home?_

Bella S: _Am now. Thank you for the wine, by the way. It's delicious._

E Cullen: _You're welcome. You're drinking it now?_

Bella S: _Yeah. I probably should have waited, aged it or something? _

It didn't take much to fire up my Catholic guilt.

E Cullen: _No, no! Do whatever you like. I'm just glad you're enjoying it. _

Bella S:_ I needed a glass after the day I had. It was really nice of you._

I probably shouldn't have brought up my troubles, but I felt the need to vent. Somehow doing it over Gchat didn't seem so personal.

E Cullen: _Uh-oh. What happened? (And nice? You're calling me nice? A substantial improvement!) _

Bella S: _Ha, don't get carried away. Anyway, it wasn't anything terrible. My partner is leaving the business for another job and I guess I just got a little freaked out about it._

Aaaand Emmett loves someone more than me. Cry me a river, Bella. I rolled my eyes at my self-pity.

E Cullen: _She's your friend. Rose, right? I remember her from the beach._ _The blonde one._

Hell, at least he didn't remember her as the one with the tits. Then again, he probably did and would just never say it.

Bella S: _Yeah. She's taking a job at _Bon Appetit_. _

E Cullen: _Leaving you in the lurch? That's not right._

Bella S: _Not exactly. I guess I've felt this coming for a while. She's not as invested in the business anymore, and this is what she's always wanted to do. I can't fault her for wanting the job._ _I have the money to buy her out, and I have Em._

E Cullen: _Ah, of course._ _It must be nice to work so closely with your partner. _

My _partner_. Jeesh. How PC of him. And how ironic that Emmett's partner was currently a six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-fifty pound Native American man. I bit my bottom lip, trying to think of how to respond. I'd totally forgotten that by mentioning Emmett I was bringing up the boyfriend thing, but Edward clearly knew to whom I referred. Before I could think of what to say, Edward replied again.

E Cullen: _So you're just upset she's leaving?_

He seemed just as eager to change the subject.

Bella S: _Um, yeah. I guess . . . I don't know. She'll be traveling a lot and I won't really see her. We started up together. I'll miss her. Never mind, it's stupid._

E Cullen: _It's not stupid. Maybe you should talk to her about it._

Bella S: _I don't know. She's just so happy. I'd hate to fuck with that just because I'm feeling a little down. I'll get over it, I'm sure. _

E Cullen: _Is there anything I can do?_

Bella S: _This is helping, actually. But let's talk about something else. How was Napa?_

E Cullen: _Beautiful, as always, though I didn't get the chance to enjoy it._

Bella S: _All work and no play?_

I realized I was fishing for information about the business/pleasure scenario I'd conjured in my head, and even though part of me warned I shouldn't, I persisted.

E Cullen: _Yes, something like that. I visited about a thousand wineries. _

Bella S: _That sounds like all play and no work._

E Cullen: _No, you've got me all wrong. I spit._

Bella S: _Come again?_

E Cullen: _LOL_

Bella S: _That sounded . . . okay, that's not what I meant._

E Cullen: _What an interesting turn this conversation has taken. _

Grinning stupidly at the computer screen, I picked up my wine and swirled it around. Cheeky Bella was about to come out to play.

Bella S: _I know what you mean. I'm afraid I can't help swallowing._

E Cullen: _! ! ! _

Bella S: _Something wrong? We're clearly discussing wine, are we not? _

E Cullen: _I'm not so sure anymore._

Bella S: _In that case, I suspect I interpreted your earlier comment incorrectly. Perhaps you do play for the other team, as they say, and all of those ladies are just a ruse. _

E Cullen: _I think we both know what team I play for._

Bella S: _I seem to remember . . . vaguely . . ._

E Cullen: _Vaguely? I thought I was the best you ever had. _

Now the conversation had _really_ taken a detour I hadn't expected. I hadn't told Edward at the time, but before him I'd only actually had sex with one other guy—if penetration and instant ejaculation could be called sex. I doubted Edward would have slept with me that summer if he'd known I was, for all intents and purposes, a virgin. No wonder I'd been so enamored with him; I probably would have fallen for any guy who could make me come and lasted more than thirty seconds.

Right.

But I wasn't a doe-eyed, near virgin anymore.

I began typing.

Bella S: _I'm sure you don't need to hear that from me. You probably receive enough ego stroking from all your female . . . acquaintances. Or whatever you call them._

Groupies? Food Porn Stars?

E Cullen: _I don't have any "acquaintances" at the moment._

Bella S: _Things didn't work out with Fish Sticks? Pity._

E Cullen: _I told you there wasn't anything between us. We went out and ended up in the tabloids, end of story. Listen, can I call you? _

Bella S: _Call me what? :-P_

I knew what he meant, of course, but was enjoying riling him up. I took another sip of wine and scratched PV's belly; during my conversation with Edward, she'd hopped up and flopped down next to me, clearly irritated at someone else receiving more attention.

E Cullen: _Ha. You know I meant call you on the phone._

Bella S: _I suppose that would be okay._

For some reason, the thought of talking to Edward on the phone made me nervous. My earlier bravado started to dissipate. I wished for a cigarette. I yearned for a calm, unruffled demeanor. Since I didn't have the former, I'd have to fake the latter.

A second later, my phone buzzed. I waited three beats before answering, not wanting to seem too needy.

"Hello," I answered in my best casual voice.

Edward cleared his throat. "Hello, Bella." The way he pronounced my name in his smooth voice, supplying an _r_ at the end where there was none, almost made me laugh. It reminded me of the way the BBC news correspondents said _Ob-a-mur_ when speaking about the president. Very cute.

Crap, I was so shitty at just being friends with this man. _Get a hold of yourself, woman! _

"So . . . you had something you wanted to tell me?"

"It was actually more of a question. You don't believe me about Athena, do you?"

"I don't know," I confessed.

"Not everything you see in the tabloids or on entertainment television is the truth, Bella."

"It's really none of my business who you sleep with. I've seen pictures of you with a lot of women. You can't tell me all of that is PR. I'm not stupid."

He sighed, and I could imagine him on the other end of the line, scrubbing his face with his hand. PV sat up and eyed the phone critically, and I could have sworn she was waiting too.

"There was a period when I let my newfound celebrity go to my head. After the initial success at Mix, I did go out with a lot of different women. I'm not exactly proud of it, but that's over now. I've been much more well-behaved recently."

"A lot of the pictures I've seen look pretty recent."

"But what am I doing in those pictures? I guarantee none of them are intimate. After I'd already gained the reputation of being a certain type of man . . . "

"A manwhore," I supplied helpfully.

He chuckled a little. "I've always preferred _Don Juan_."

"Oh, do you?"

"Anytime I'm in public with a woman, be it a friend, acquaintance, or someone I've just met, it's instantly everywhere—on blogs, gossip sites. I don't keep track of what they say, but my publicist does."

"So if it's not true, why not deny it?"

"Do you think my denial would actually change anything? People believe what they want to believe."

"But certainly you could control the extent of the rumors. Your team could."

"Jane believes the publicity is a good thing."

"Ahh. The old 'any publicity is good publicity' adage?"

"Indeed. Ah, saying it out loud like that makes it seem so tawdry."

"It is, a bit."

Silence.

"God," he said finally. "What you must think of me."

"I'm just trying to figure you out, Edward. There are a lot of things about you that I like. The other day at the restaurant you were so sweet. . . and then you tell me stuff like this, that you basically let Jane or whoever perpetuate this false image of you, or at least an exaggerated image, for ratings or publicity or whatever. Why do you put up with it?"

I stood and paced the room, the wine long abandoned as my thoughts tried to make sense of this complicated man. He'd done a lot of questionable things, but I was beginning to see he wasn't a bad person. An easily misled one, perhaps.

"It didn't used to matter to me. I didn't care what anyone thought."

It made sense when considering his brusque, assholish television persona. The tone of his voice sounded defeated, like he'd already resigned himself to an eternity of people thinking the worst of him.

"But now you do?"

"Yes," he said emphatically. "For some strange reason, I care what you think of me."

"Me? Why?"

"I don't know. And all these years I've thought I . . . but really I'm no better than him."

"Who?"

He was quiet for a minute, but then I knew exactly what he meant. "My father."

"Oh."

"You know he never congratulated me? Never praised me. Not once. Even after Mix opened and I was the talk of the bloody town. Nothing. Except one night . . ." he scoffed. "I don't even know why I'm telling you this."

"You don't have to." I felt more than a little trepidatious about where this story was headed, but if Edward wanted to tell me, I supposed I should listen. Still, I didn't want him to feel like he had to. He didn't owe me anything.

"I've never told anyone," he continued, ignoring the out I'd given him, "but you know the one time he ever congratulated me? It was at the party for my Michelin star. My parents had just finalized their divorce, and my father showed up with this woman who was even younger than me—this tall, leggy redhead. Very posh. Beautiful." Edward paused, and I sat down on the couch, covering my legs with an afghan. I experienced a strange and impossible desire to hug him through the phone.

"Are you still there?" he asked at my silence.

"Yeah. I'm still listening. Go on."

"My mother was there at the party alone. I was disgusted, but I had my own date that night—she could have been a carbon copy of my father's, only blonde. She was a nice enough girl, but I don't even remember her name. Soon the two of them were talking like best friends. I felt ill."

"So what happened?" I asked, feeling a little sick myself.

"I couldn't look my mother in the face. She left soon after that. When the girls went to the bathroom, my father pulled me aside and put his arm around me. I could smell the single malt he'd been drinking. You know what he said? _You've done well, son._ _You've done well._ It was all I wanted to hear. But, you see, he wasn't talking about the restaurant—he was talking about the girl."

"That is really fucked up," I whispered. My mother was like a saint compared to Edward's dad. Maybe I'd build her a shrine and start worshipping her on Sundays.

"Isn't it?" He laughed a little, but there was no mirth to it. "That was the night I vowed to pay him back for every cent he'd ever given me. And that was the night I stopped . . ."

"Manwhoring?"

"To put it bluntly." He sounded chastised, but I kind of felt shitty. Who was I to be so judgmental? I wasn't the Virgin Mary, and I'd never been so critical of my other friends' colorful love lives. Though I loathed admitting it, my censure of him suddenly seemed hypocritical and based on something other than moral indignation.

I was such a jealous bitch.

But still, it bothered me that he allowed his reputation to continue unchecked when he clearly wasn't proud of it.

"But why do you let Jane do whatever she wants with your image?"

"I know the truth about myself. Like I said, I didn't care what anyone else thought."

God, Edward's father really put him through the wringer. I didn't have a psychology degree, but I could imagine another reason as well—if he'd only every been praised for banging chicks . . .

Edward's voice brought me out of my head, not allowing me to continue that train of thought. "But now I see . . . differently. I see what you think of me. I don't like it."

"It's not about what I think of you, Edward. It's about what you think of yourself," I said, my voice growing louder. "You have control over your life."

"Ha!" he laughed. "It doesn't feel like that sometimes. This whole thing—it's bigger than me now. I have a persona to live up to, after all. It's practically in the bloody contract."

"Well, if you can't stop the paps, at least tell Jane to start combating those rumors. _She _works for _you_, after all. And when you go on talk shows, for the love of God, try not to be such an . . ."

"Point taken."

"Yeah." I poked my finger through one of the holes in my blanket, the blood that had begun pumping during my little speech settling.

"You make it sound so easy."

"I'm sorry . . . I know I'm probably coming off as high and mighty. I've done a lot of stupid things in my life, believe me."

"Like me."

"I'm starting to think you're not the worst."

"Oh, really?"

"Maybe second worst," I joked. He was silent, and I didn't know if I'd overstepped the line. PV hopped up onto my lap and gave me a withering stare, censuring me for mocking her Daddy.

"I was just joking," I said, more to PV than to Edward.

"So then I'm third worst?" The teasing tone in his voice told me he understood.

"Maybe even fourth," I offered.

"Wow. This is getting better and better."

We chatted for a couple minutes longer about lighter, less consequential things, and I found my eyes growing weary. Our conversation had really taken it out of me—and given me a lot to think about. Edward seemed to be fading too. I heard him yawn on the other end of the line.

"I'm sorry, Bella," he said, just before we hung up. "You're upset about your friend, and we wound up talking about me all night. I'm afraid I'm a self-centered bastard after all."

I loved the way he drew out the _a_ and dropped the _r_ in _bastard_, making it sound like the most desirable thing to be in the world.

"You're not. And I don't mind. It's given me a new perspective. I'm sorry your father is such a bloody arsehole," I said, doing my best impression of his accent. It made him laugh; that was something, at least.

"No, seriously," I said. "Thanks for trying to explain. I'm not saying I agree with how you've handled things, but . . . I understand."

"You're a good listener. Thank you for that."

"Really?"

"Really. But I've kept you long enough. Let's do something again soon. Something fun. Enough of this blasted sadness. I'd like to see a bit more of New York."

"What about the paps?"

"Maybe I'll disguise myself."

He sounded completely serious.

"Interesting. Okay. I'd like to see this disguise, especially if it involves a fake moustache."

"How about a bad wig?"

"Then I'm definitely in. Give me a call."

"I will."

We hung up shortly after and, for the first time since Edward had re-entered my life, I felt like I had made an actual friend. It didn't take long to fall asleep once my head hit the pillow. That night I dreamt of moonlit water and a long, white, vacant beach.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I'd love to hear what you think! **

**And JSYK, I'm writing a Strange Brew outtake for Fandom for Leukemia and Lymphoma. Lots of great authors are contributing, so donate to get your copy of the compilation here: **

**http:/fandom4lls(dot)blogspot(dot)com/**

**Also, a couple of days ago I posted a little O/S called The Stream; check out the link on my ffn page.  
><strong>


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: SM owns it all. Grr.**

**A huge thank you to Mac214 and prereaders DiamondHeart78, BellaFlan, and Ms. Junkowski, who are generous with their time and comic genius.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 13: Like A Rollercoaster <strong>

_Friday, Friday, gotta get down on Friday_ . . . Goddamn stupid song. Clearly Rebecca Black was one of Satan's minions since I couldn't get the horribly catchy tune out of my head.

_Kicking in the back seat_ . . . Argh! I considered throwing myself out of the window, but I lived on the first floor. I wouldn't even successfully maim myself. Maybe, I'd have to go visit a seventh floor neighbor to properly jump. But then again, suicide is a sin, and I bet they play that horrible song twenty-four-seven in Hell.

I set the basket of laundry I'd been carrying onto my bed and started folding, wracking my brain for a replacement for the song and coming up with nothing. PV chirped at my feet and leapt onto the bed, depositing herself in the middle of my clean laundry and watching me with lazy eyes.

"I know. It's a miracle, right?" I commented, balling up a pair of socks. She swatted her tail in agreement. I'd been down to my last pair of emergency period panties before today's laundry extravaganza. But now I had the weekend off, thanks to Rose, who'd insisted on taking over some of my events to give me a break before the apocalypse.

It had already started. The previous week I'd been swamped with meetings, paperwork, and beginning the search for a new business manager. Even with Emmett taking over some of her duties, we still needed extra help.

Now that I was home with some free time, I wondered about Edward. We hadn't spoken for a few days, and I knew he must be busy with work—the man had an insane, eighteen-hour schedule most days.

He said he'd call. Which meant I shouldn't call him. Right?

Or . . . maybe I should. So far he'd made every overture towards me, and he'd been more open than I ever expected. Perhaps a phone call would show him I appreciated his candor and wanted to cement our friendship? Maybe he was waiting for me to make the next move.

But he said he'd call. If we were playing by dating rules, calling him would be a big, fat no-no. I might as well wear a sign on my head saying _Single, Horny, and Desperate._

But we weren't dating. I could call a friend. Or text. I could text him. The thought of picking up the phone and dialing made my hands sweat and my heart thump in my chest.

He said_ he'd _call!

I sighed and threw down a pair of my work pants, frustrated with my high-schoolish over-analysis.

Fuck it. I was a strong, independent woman. I could use the freaking phone.

I calmed myself with slow, deep breaths and went to my happy place—a Brooklyn thin crust pizzeria—and dialed.

"Hello, Bella?" Edward answered in a loud voice. From the commotion in the background, it sounded like he was in the middle of a construction site. Something grated, like metal on metal.

"Hi, yeah, it's me." I tried to speak over the din. "Where are you, the Texas Chainsaw Massacre?"

"I'm sorry; I can't hear you!" he shouted. "Just a second."

A few seconds and several muffled shouts later, Edward returned.

"Sorry about that," he apologized. "I'm over at the restaurant, and we're taking down a wall."

"Oh," I said, smiling at the sound of his voice. "Sounds like a project."

"It is." He sighed on the end of the line. "Anyway, I'm sorry I haven't called. It's been insane this past week. You have no idea."

"Tell me about it."

As we spoke, the butterflies in my stomach settled. Edward had apparently filmed the last show before the vote-offs began, and it hadn't gone well. Of course, according to his contract he couldn't tell me any details.

"Well, I'll have to catch it tomorrow, then."

"I was actually hoping you'd miss it."

"Oh? Why - is it that bad?"

Edward sighed. "I suppose worse things have happened. But anyway, I wanted to see if you'd like to do something tomorrow. You know, ah, hang out." He sounded hesitant, and I was glad he wasn't around to see the stupid grin on my face.

"Um . . . yeah. I would like to. I have the day off. What do you want to do?"

When Edward and I hung up a few minutes later, PV rubbed against my shins, reminding me about dinnertime.

"I'm going out with your dad tomorrow," I told her. "He's coming here to meet you."

PV looked up and meowed.

"It's not a date," I insisted. "We're just hanging out."

Edward had told me we could do whatever I wanted—he wanted me to choose.

I hoped he was ready for an adventure.

**^_^ AAT ^_^**

When I opened the door the following day, Edward stood on my stoop sporting a pair of sunglasses and a Mets cap, his jaw covered with a couple days' growth of stubble. Though still discernibly Edward to any astute observer, with his hair covered up he could probably pass as a regular Joe.

_Yeah, right, not with that smile. _

"Pizza delivery," he joked, giving me a glimpse of teeth as he smirked.

"Sorry. I didn't order any pizza." When Edward took his cap off and ran his hand through his hair, I let out a fake gasp. "Ohhh! Edward! I hardly recognized you."

"Ha."

I opened the door wider to let him in.

"You don't approve of my disguise?" he asked as he stepped across the threshold. Looking down, I realized he was wearing shorts. I'd told him to dress casually, but the sight of his hairy calves almost made me giggle. Almost.

"Um, it's great, but you kind of look like a celebrity in hiding. Maybe you should've gone with the fake moustache."

Edward cocked his head to the side and shrugged. "Well, it worked. I wasn't followed."

"Thank God, because if I wind up on a tabloid cover, I'm suing you."

"Don't get ahead of yourself. The day isn't over yet."

Now that he was inside, I didn't know what to do—give him a tour of my tiny apartment? He could basically see the entire thing from the foyer, except for my bedroom. No, not going there.

"So, this is your place." He removed his glasses and peered around. "It's nice."

"Thanks. It's small, but . . . I'm really not here much."

I was about to ask if he wanted to sit for a bit or go when PV appeared from out of nowhere to inspect the visitor. Her tail swished wildly when Edward bent down to pet her.

"Hello there," Edward said softly as PV rubbed up into his hand. "I remember you."

She'd always been a friendly cat, but this was downright ridiculous. Edward looked up at me with a bemused expression. "So this is my long lost daughter?"

"This is PV," I replied, placing my hands on my hips. It's like she could sense he was the one responsible for all the salmon.

"What does that stand for?"

I felt my face heat as I considered either answer—both seemed equally ridiculous.

"Pussy Veritas," I muttered finally. Edward's eyebrows traveled up his forehead.

"That's quite an . . . unusual name."

"Trust me, you don't even want to know."

Edward continued scratching PV's head, and she flopped down next to his sneakers, exposing her belly for a rub. Traitor.

"I think she likes me."

"Hmmm. It seems that way. Maybe it's the family resemblance," I suggested. Edward looked up with a puzzled smile.

"You know," I said gesturing to his hat-covered head. "Ginger hair and whatnot."

"I don't have ginger hair. It's . . ." He thought deeply. "It's auburn."

"Auburn?" I sniggered. "Only chicks have auburn hair."

"That's not true."

"It is. I guarantee you. Do a Google image search and see what pops up."

"Fine. It's reddish," Edward amended, looking a little sheepish.

"You know what they say about denial . . ."

He straightened up and dusted off his hands. A few wisps of cat hair drifted through the air. "Well, shall we?"

"Let's do it, Ginger."

Once outside with Edward's "disguise" back in place, I impulsively grabbed his arm, looping mine through his as we headed towards the subway. He came along easily, falling into step by my side.

"Should we get a taxi?" he asked, adjusting his hat with his free hand. It looked brand new, like he'd bought it specifically for the occasion. The thought made my chest hurt a little.

"Nope, we're taking the train."

"I'm not sure that's a great idea. Last time I tried, I ended up signing about fifty autographs and getting asked out by a rather . . . corpulent middle-aged man. Or perhaps it was a woman. I honestly couldn't tell." He shuddered at the memory.

"Okaaaay then. A cab it is."

**^_^ AAT ^_^**

An hour later, after we'd grabbed a Nathan's dog and a malted for lunch, Edward and I strolled down the boardwalk toward the Cyclone. So far, no one had paid us any heed at all—I was beginning to think Edward's casual getup was working after all.

"This reminds me a bit of Brighton, you know," Edward said, gesturing around with his drink in his hand. The air smelt of dirty seawater and popcorn.

"Is that a good or bad thing?"

"Good, it's good."

A girl with a tight ass passed us on rollerblades, and Edward had the decency not to stare at her. Of course that could have been because he was fumbling with his food, trying to take a bite without dripping mustard on himself.

"So why don't you have a bodyguard," I asked. "Or a driver?"

"I have both," he admitted. "I just prefer to do things on my own if I can."

I took a bite of my hotdog and nodded. "I get that."

As we munched the last of our food, we got embroiled in a fierce debate about toppings. Edward insisted Americans ate far too much ketchup and that it was the most repellant, overused substance in the world. He was wrong . . . dead wrong. I let him know it.

"Okay, okay," he finally conceded, tossing his hot dog wrapper into a trashcan. "You're right. Our world-wide dependence on oil is far more detrimental to mankind than America's addiction to ketchup."

"Thank you." I slurped the last of my shake and followed suit. "It's nice to have a friend who can admit he's wrong."

Edward kicked a discarded Coke can from out of his path and thrust his hands into his pockets. "Well, look at us now."

"Hmm?"

"Having a civilzed conversation about the use and abuse of viscous substances. Seems like only yesterday you'd convinced me I had a cat as a daughter."

"And you sent the health department to _La Vie_."

"And you called me a douchenozzle . . . and then sent me one."

I rolled my eyes and laughed. "That was supposed to be educational. Let's not forget the cat crap coffee."

"I've heard it's actually quite delicious," Edward insisted.

"Oh, I'm sure that's why you sent it. Have you ever tried it?"

He wrinkled his nose. "Absolutely not."

I sighed with faux nostalgia. "Those were the days."

"Ahh, yes," Edward agreed, "but I think these days are better."

Before I knew what was happening, Edward reached out and lightly touched my cheek. I froze, my heart thumping wildly.

"Bella?"

"Yeah?" I didn't know whether to pull away or move closer.

He dropped his hand and made a wiping motion with his thumb on his own face. "You have a little ketchup right here."

My face lit up in embarrassment, and I furiously rubbed the indicated spot.

"Jeez, Edward. Just tell me!"

"Sorry," he chuckled. "I didn't want to embarrass you."

"It's fine," I muttered, fishing for my compact in my purse. Once I'd cleaned myself off, we started walking again. "You can't take me anywhere."

Though I couldn't see his eyes beneath the dark shades, he was smiling.

"Oh, I don't know. You looked kind of cute like that," he said.

My breath caught in my throat, and I looked away quickly, unable to discern if he was flirting with me. . . whether I wanted him to. The thought of it sort of terrified me. Even though he seemed so different than I'd imagined, I could only see this ending badly. He was a celebrity for God's sake, and I was just some girl he screwed one summer.

The old bitterness returned, and with it, hesitation. I shouldn't let myself get too close, no matter how charming he seemed. Maybe we could be friends, but pursuing anything further would just set me up for that same heartache.

Before I could think too long on it, we arrived at our destination. Edward glanced at the wooden coaster, then back to me, completely genuine disbelief written on his face.

"This is what you expect me to ride?" he asked, his voice rising in pitch. Oh my God, was Edward Cullen scared of a silly little rollercoaster? Ooh, this was too fun. I forgot about my previous thoughts and grabbed his arm, dragging him forward.

"Yep," I said. "Let's go."

"But it's ancient," he complained as we approached the ticket booth. The pimply teenaged boy manning it stared at us, looking horribly bored and unimpressed with Edward's grumbling.

"Isn't it? It's been operational since 1927, and only one person has died." I tried not to laugh at the look of horror that crept over Edward's face. He watched the current riders shout with glee as they plummeted down the Cyclone's steepest drop while I paid for our fare.

"The danger is part of the thrill. Don't tell me you're scared, Mr. Top Chef?"

"Hottest Chef," he corrected, sliding his glasses down his nose so I could get a look at his green eyes. I couldn't think of a quick retort, and Edward smirked, clearly pleased with himself.

Luckily, the line started moving forward, sparing me further indignity of being made weak in the knees by the cockiest chef in Manhattan.

Once we were strapped in, Edward turned to me with a forced smile.

"You've ridden this before?"

"Loads of times. And I only got whiplash once."

"Oh, then this should be fun," he said, sounding entirely unconvinced.

"You might want to take your hat off," I suggested. Edward nodded and complied promptly, stowing it between his knees. Now exposed, his reddish hair gleamed in the sunlight, looking very soft and touchable. I resisted the urge, instead digging my fingers into my thighs and trying not to focus on our proximity. The rollercoaster cars were turn-of-the century small, built for smaller people, and Edward was a tall man. His leg brushed against mine, the fuzz tickling my bare skin and sending a little shock of pleasure through my body. I moved my leg away, though all I really wanted to do was press it more firmly against him.

When the cars lurched and began ascending up the rickety slope, I watched Edward gaze straight ahead, his hands tightly gripping the bar.

"You're really afraid, aren't you?" I asked, suddenly feeling a little bad that I'd forced him into this.

"I'm not exactly fond of heights. Are you sure this thing is safe?" He smiled tightly, relaxing a bit when I placed my hand on his knee.

"It'll be fun. Trust me."

I needn't have worried. Not only did Edward love the Cyclone, he wanted to ride it again. And again. By the end of our third consecutive spin, I was pretty sure I had a few cracked vertebrae, but Edward grinned like a schoolboy, his hair wild and messy from the breeze.

"You better put your hat back on," I warned him. A couple of girls off to the side had begun to stare, probably wondering why they recognized him.

Edward pouted. "You don't want to be seen with me?"

"I don't want to wind up in the newspaper as one of your day-of-the-week girls, that's for sure."

"Of course," he said, something strange in the tone of his voice as he placed the cap back on his head and secured his dark shades. Before I could get a handle on it, he smiled again. "So what now?"

"I don't know . . . most of the old rides are closed now. There's the Wonder Wheel, but that goes pretty high, too . . ."

"Let's go!"

Riding the Ferris wheel with Edward made me feel like a teenager. While he remained a little skittish, especially when I jokingly rocked the car, he seemed to enjoy the sight of Brooklyn from the top. I smiled at his enthusiasm when, once we disembarked, he insisted on buying some "candy floss."

"Ugh," I complained with a groan after I'd eaten a couple of sugary wisps. "This stuff is just as gross as I remember." I handed it off to him, clutching my stomach, which was now roiling from the combination of the fair food and rides.

Edward unraveled a long strand and tilted his head up, opening his mouth. The tip of his tongue touched the sugary sweet, melting it instantly. Dammit, I may have melted a little as well.

"It's not that bad," he replied with a shrug. "An interesting texture. I never really had it growing up."

"Oh my God," I said, elbowing him gently, "you were like a deprived child."

Edward smirked. "Rich and deprived. Poor me."

Though his tone was facetious, I had a feeling he wasn't really joking.

"I believe every child has the unalienable right to eat carcinogenic pseudo-food."

Edward laughed. "I hardly think a bit of spun sugar causes cancer."

"You don't know that," I argued playfully. "Have you participated in any long-term studies? I mean, look at this stuff."

I poked the fluff and licked the bit off my finger. Edward stared, a smile catching the corner of his mouth.

"See? It's like the stuff they use to insulate houses. There's probably asbestos in it."

"It is pretty terrible," he admitted, finally tossing the rest. "But it brings back good memories."

"I thought you couldn't have any cotton candy?"

"Ah, but when I was away at school, my parents didn't know. Sometimes we went on trips to the seaside."

"Where did you go to school?"

"Harrow," he said simply.

The name sounded familiar. "I think I've heard of that."

"You probably have. It's a public school."

"How democratic of your parents."

"Quite the opposite, actually. Public schools in England are similar to what you term private schools in the states."

"Oh, I see. So you were stuck up?"

"Of course. It was the first step in becoming the pretentious asshole you see before you today."

I wrinkled my nose and shook my head. "I have to admit you're really doing a crappy job with the asshole thing. I'm re-evaluating you, and I hate having to modify my preconceived notions about people. It's so trying."

As night began to fall, we chatted for a bit about London—I could tell he missed it, though he didn't admit it. He was silent on the topic of his parents, but I wondered about his mother, whether she'd ever remarried. From what I'd heard of her relationship with Edward's father, I wouldn't have blamed her if she hadn't.

"But what about you?" Edward asked, changing the subject. "I seem to remember your father was in the Army?"

His statement surprised me. "Good memory."

I told Edward about moving around as I grew up, and he listened attentively, stopping to ask questions. I told him how I'd learn to cook, about Leah and her mom Sue and how they'd become my surrogate family in a way.

"Have you stayed in touch?"

"No, actually. I haven't spoken to her in years. I wonder what she's doing now; she's probably still in Texas. Sometimes I feel bad about it, but then I remember she never really tried to stay in touch with me, either."

"It's hard staying in touch when you live far apart, especially when you're young," Edward said quietly. We'd reached the end of the boardwalk and our time together.

"Yeah, I suppose."

Something told me that perhaps he was referring to us. The likelihood we would have maintained contact over the transatlantic distance, especially as little as we knew each other, had been slim indeed. I hadn't recognized that at the time, being so caught up in the romance of a summer infatuation.

And the truth stood staring at me in the face: in order for our friendship to continue, I really needed to tell him about Emmett. Even now, maybe he'd consider it a silly joke. If it went on much longer, he'd think I maliciously deceived him.

But I had no idea how to broach the subject without making it seem like an opening for romantic possibilities between us. Because there was no way I could handle that.

Could I?

The silence that had settled between us started to feel a little uncomfortable.

"Your boyfriend must be very understanding," Edward said suddenly, casually . . . too casually?

His comment caught me off guard, especially since I'd just been considering the same topic.

"Oh?"

"He doesn't mind you out with another man?"

"I . . . he doesn't . . .this . . . " I stumbled over my words, trying to formulate what I wanted to say. I could have kicked myself for being such an inarticulate mess.

_I don't have a boyfriend._

_He doesn't give two shits._

_This wasn't a date, was it? _

"I was thinking," Edward said hurriedly before I could decide which to go with, "it's actually probably for the best you're seeing someone." His tone seemed colder, more distant than I'd grown used accustomed to.

"It is?" I asked, breathless at the reroute of our conversation and frankly feeling a little stupid. Of course Edward didn't want to be more than friends.

"It's nice having a friend for once, Bella. I . . ." He sighed and removed his glasses. "God knows I don't want to muck it up with . . . and you . . ."

I strained my ears, trying to fill in the blanks he left behind while my stomach plummeted. He was glad I was seeing someone. He'd never want me_ that _way. My confusion about what I wanted . . . what he wanted . . . overwhelmed the moment. I found myself without anything to say, not realizing that Edward had continued on, and I hadn't heard a word he'd subsequently said.

"Would you?"

"Hmm?" I tried, and failed, to regain my equilibrium.

"Never mind—don't answer that," he muttered. "We should catch a taxi."

"I'm sorry. I just . . . you caught me off guard." The comfort I'd felt all day in his company had been replaced by unease, which I couldn't quite understand. This was what I'd wanted all along, wasn't it? To be _just friends_? I crossed my arms over my chest and stood staring at oncoming headlights.

But then Edward rubbed my shoulder firmly, both easing some of the tension and scrambling my brain further.

He stuck out his other arm and waved it at the traffic.

"I had a great time today," he said quietly as a car pulled up. When he dropped his hand, I felt empty.

"Me too."

The ride home was mostly silent as I grappled with a newfound understanding. Once in a while, I stole sideways glances at Edward. He rested his head back against the seat with his eyes closed. He looked tired, and I had the overwhelming urge to hug him.

No matter how much I wanted to deny it, I liked Edward.

I _liked_ him.

Not like a friend at all.

* * *

><p><strong>My thoughts are with everyone in London-stay safe.<br>**


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: SM owns it all. Thanks to Mac214 for her beta magic, and to DiamondHeart78 and Ms. Junkowski for pre-reading. Love you chicas! **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 14: Flambe Me<br>**

Returning to work on Monday served as a welcome respite from all the thinking I'd done over the weekend. No matter how I tried to weigh the situation, it always came down to me on the bottom and Edward on top.

_I wish. _

Okay, so given the circumstances, that wasn't the most appropriate figure of speech.

It always came down to Edward having the upper hand. Much better.

I had, however, decided two things after a well-reasoned, scientific examination of my feelings.

One: I actually wanted to be friends with Edward. The time we'd spent together had proved that, not only did we have things in common, but we also had fun together. And just because I had a minor attraction to him didn't mean we couldn't be friends. I'd had attractive male friends before that I never had sex with. Like Emmett. And Jacob.

_Yes, but they're gay. _Mom-voice was beginning to get on my nerves with her newfound emphasis on self-awareness.

Two: Edward never needed to know about said attraction because I refused to be humiliated a second time. We'd drawn boundary lines, and that was good. Nothing had changed between us, and nothing would. Both of us knew where we stood now. How very healthy.

With renewed resignation, I threw myself into my work, arriving at_ La Vie _early to prepare the fresh tomato tarts we'd be serving at a luncheon for the Psoriasis National Information Society.

PNIS. I chuckled to myself as I unrolled sheets of puff pastry, wondering what kind of moron had allowed that acronym to slide by unchecked. The least I could do was prepare a nice, flaky crust to go along with their scaly skin. Poor itchy bastards.

"What's so funny?" Emmett asked as he approached my work station. I hadn't even noticed him come in.

"Oh, nothing. I'm just making these tarts for PNIS."

"Whose penis?" His brows drew together in confusion.

"Hopefully nobody's," I quipped. Emmett leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You're in rare spirits today," he said. "Have a good weekend?"

"It was . . . interesting," I said, lowering my voice so the rest of the crew wouldn't overhear.

"Interesting?" Emmett asked loudly, not getting the hint. "You're gonna have to do better than that, girl. I haven't heard from you in days, and you skipped yoga. Again."

"I'm surprised you even noticed," I teased, poking him in the side with the tail end of my pastry brush. "Or that you went."

"I brought Jake along." His eyes clouded over as a stupid grin split his face in two. "He looks amazing all hot and sweaty."

"I'm sure." I couldn't resist another jab. He deflected, grabbing the pastry brush, dipping it in the butter, and holding it up as a shield.

"I have butter, and I'm not afraid to use it."

"Now that's a double-entendre I don't want to see to the finish," James called from the other side of the room.

I pinched Emmett's nipple through his shirt, and he squealed, dropping the brush back on the counter. I picked it up and continued bathing my pastry rounds.

"Damn girl," Emmett moaned, rubbing his pecs. "I'm extra-sensitive today."

"Do I even want to know why that is?"

He smirked. "Probably not."

"So it seems like things are going well with you two," I said. "That's great."

"They're going better than well. I'm meeting his parents."

"You're what?" My voice rose an octave. "And these are the same conservative parents he was afraid of telling he was gay?"

Emmett shrugged. "They're actually trying to be supportive."

"Wow. That's huge."

Emmett sighed again. "So is Jake."

"God, I hate you."

"Woman, you need to find yourself a man with a long schlong."

"You're such a poet."

But maybe he was right.

That night I found myself selecting the episode of Edward's show that I'd missed on Watch Instantly. Though I hadn't known what to make of them at the time, his comments about it being a shit show intrigued me.

Nothing prepared me for the moment about halfway through the show when Zafrina hit on him.

This wasn't her usual bat-the-eyes and giggle style—it was a full on ass grope. Caught on camera.

Edward's face turned three shades of chartreuse as he whirled around, his eyes flashing darkly.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" he yelled. The camera panned to Zafrina's simpering face. She bit her lip and cocked her head, looking innocent.

"Nothing?"

Edward's brow furrowed, and he spoke again with a deadly tone.

"This is a ***bleep***ing kitchen, not a ***bleep***ing dating game. You obviously don't know the difference. Leave now."

"I'm sorry. I . . ."

"Now!" Edward yelled again, pointing his finger toward the door. I didn't know whether to laugh or hurl things at the television. Zafrina turned, her shoulders hunching as she exited stage right—for good? The vote-offs hadn't begun yet, but I had a feeling she'd be one of the first to be canned.

And good riddance. It was becoming more and more apparent that the show's producers had picked the most incompetent people they could find to make the show interesting, counting on Edward's frustration with them to drive up ratings. Even though he'd agreed to it, they were using him, exploiting his love for his profession by presenting him with idiots to teach. And it was working. His patience was wearing thin.

No wonder he hadn't wanted me to see it.

I immediately booted up my computer and, noticing Edward wasn't on Gchat, sent him a quick email.

About a half-hour later, my phone rang.

"Hey," Edward said, his voice tired.

"Hi."

"So you saw it, huh?"

"Yeah. I saw it. What the hell is wrong with that woman?"

"She's bloody daft," he muttered. There was something about his voice that sounded off . . . had he been drinking?

"So did you kick her off?"

"I wanted to, but . . . no."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not . . ." He sighed, staying silent for a few beats. When he spoke again, the irritation in his voice was clear. "I'm not supposed to talk about it. But no, the producers don't want her gone. They overruled me."

"Can they do that?"

"Of course."

"But you can vote her off, right?"

"Actually," he said hesitantly, "There's been a . . . shit. I'm not supposed to say."

"What?" I didn't like the tone of his voice.

"Bella, I could get into serious legal trouble for telling you this."

"My phone isn't tapped. At least I don't think it is," I joked. "Hey, you don't need to tell me anything, but I swear to God I'll keep it secret. Except from PV, of course."

"I no longer have sole control over the vote-off."

"I don't understand."

"It seems they've had this up their sleeves for some time . . ." He scoffed, and I heard the tinkling of ice in a glass.

"Had what up their sleeves?"

"It seems they're going to have a popular vote . . . America gets to choose who stays and who goes. I get the final say between the last two contestants."

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me! They're getting all _American Idol_ on your ass?"

"It appears that way."

"But how can they do that?"

"It's in the contract."

"Shit, Edward, you need a better lawyer."

"He's already been fired and replaced."

As my mind wrapped around the connotations of the change, I felt horrible for him. The chef position at Edward's new restaurant, promised to the winner, was now largely out of his hands. And knowing popular tastes, the audience favorites would not necessarily have the most culinary experience. While they could, of course, vote off the biggest morons, they could also just as easily decide to stick it to Edward and leave him with Zafrina. Or the lemur chick with the goggle-glasses.

I didn't like the thought of Zafrina working for Edward. Not one bit.

"Crap. Crap. I'm so sorry. This is ridiculous."

"I believe the term is fucked. Bloody fucked." Edward filled me in on the rest—he had a one week break in filming during which the Food Network would run a special with highlights from the first eight episodes, announcing the game-changing plans for the vote-off at the end. It sounded like the second half of the show was shaping up to be an even bigger ratings whore than the first.

"No wonder you're drinking."

"How can you tell?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson. You sound kind of drunk, and you're giving out classified information."

"How astute of you."

"I'm talented."

"Indeed you are."

He said the last few words so softly, I could barely make them out.

"So." I cleared my throat, feeling suddenly awkward. "What are you going to do if America picks the lemur woman?" Or that ho who grabbed your ass? _Not that I care._

Edward chuckled. "Thankfully, the position is only guaranteed for six months; after that, I can permanently hire, or fire, whoever it is." PV rolled onto her back beside me, her feet twitching in her dreams.

"That's a relief."

Edward took an audible sip and sighed.

"I hope you're at least drinking the good stuff."

"Of course. It's my birthday, after all."

"Ha, ha."

"No, I'm completely serious. It's my birthday."

"Shut up."

"Fine, don't believe me. But if you like, you can check my Wikipedia article. It's one of the few things the idiot who wrote it got right."

"You're serious?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, crap. Happy Birthday. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't believe in creating a sense of obligation in people."

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

"Kind of."

"It's not a big deal. I've actually had quite a good day. No filming. Very relaxing."

"Aside from all of this."

"Yes."

Before I could stop myself, I blurted, "Well, at least let me cook you dinner or something."

Edward chuckled. "You want to cook me dinner?"

"Um . . ." My face flushed, and I leapt out of the couch, waking PV from her blissful slumber. "Not tonight. But yeah, if you want."

"Obviously not tonight."

A quick glance at my clock set the time at after eleven. Right.

"How about Friday?" I asked.

Edward sighed. "I have a thing that night, I'm afraid."

I tried not to be curious.

"Saturday?" he asked.

"Let me check." I glanced at the calendar. "Nope. I have an event."

After throwing around different dates we finally settled on Wednesday. Probably better than the weekend anyway. Much more friendly. But only two days away.

"I have to confess, though, my standards are quite high."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, really? I'd never have guessed."

**^_^ AAT ^_^**

"Will you please go away? You're making me nervous."

I added carrots and onions to the fat in the pot, trying to ignore Edward as he sat on the opposite counter, sipping a glass of wine.

He'd had arrived a half-hour earlier than expected, excusing himself with the justification that he'd already been out and was afraid of going home first, lest he alert the paps. I didn't buy it for a second; from the way he'd been lurking in my kitchen, I knew he wanted to watch me cook.

"Am I?" he asked.

"Yes. You really are. I feel like you're judging every move I make."

"Not judging. Just silently considering."

"Whatever you're doing, it's annoying."

I'd decided to make a fast-cooking Coq au Vin since I'd worked later than anticipated. Edward continued to ignore my request, but I caught his eyebrows raise when I added the Cognac and chicken together.

"You're not going to flambé?" he teased.

"No. The alcohol will cook off on its own, and flambéing is just an excuse for cocky chefs to show off."

He sighed. "Pity. I was looking forward to a show."

"Just go away, Edward."

He hopped off the counter and grabbed his glass. "I'll just go amuse myself then."

"You do that."

Minutes later, just as I was covering the pot to simmer, he returned.

"Now _this _I find very interesting. Perhaps even more interesting than a nice, showy flambé."

Oh, no. No, he wasn't.

Yes, he was.

In my hurry with dinner and fluster at Edward's early arrival, I'd forgotten to give my apartment the once-over it'd obviously needed.

There he stood, holding in his hands the box with the vibrating egg I'd bought at Babeland . . . I'd never used it or put it away. Instead, I'd left it on my desk near my computer for any Tom, Dick, or Edward to see!

I grabbed for it, my face flushing as pink as the package. But Edward held it up and out of my grasp, the smirk on his face telling me he wouldn't let me off the hook so easily.

"Give that to me," I gritted through my teeth, giving up on my pursuit once I realized he wouldn't relinquish it, and I was only making myself look more ridiculous. I crossed my arms and glared at him.

He finally lowered his arm, and I snatched the package, crossing my arms again and marching to my bedroom to stow it with my other toys.

I returned to find Edward seated on the couch, looking equal parts contrite and amused.

"Don't even . . ." I said, raising my hand as I bypassed him on my way to the kitchen.

"I'm sorry." He followed, his light chuckle embarrassing me anew. My face flamed again; I didn't understand my reaction at all. Normally I wouldn't have cared . . . I was in general quite proud of my toy collection. But somehow having Edward see it made me feel like a complete and utter . . . ugh!

"I wasn't trying to snoop," he said. "But there it was on the table; I thought it might've been my birthday present."

"It wasn't. Unless you're into ass play, and if so, then be my guest."

I turned back to the stove and ignored him, lifting the lid off the Dutch oven to check on the chicken.

"Don't be like that, Bella. I'm sorry I embarrassed you."

Sincerity overshadowed the mirth in his voice. I felt myself soften a little.

"Well, I was the stupid one for leaving it out."

"I wouldn't have joked about it if I thought you'd get upset," he assured me. "I thought maybe you left it out on purpose."

"Why in the world would I do that?"

Edward's face remained impassive except for a slight rise of his pretty eyebrows. He shrugged. If I hadn't been so disconcerted, I may have pressed further.

"Can we just not talk about my sex toys anymore?" I asked, poking the chicken gently with the meat thermometer.

"Ah, but it's such an interesting topic."

"For you, maybe."

"Okay," he said, backing off. "But maybe one day you'll be a little more willing to share. That's what friends are for, after all."

I snorted. "Probably not."

"A man can dream."

Something appeared in his eyes—a glimmer that faded seconds later. I wasn't sure I'd seen it at all.

The rest of the dinner passed smoother. The chicken came out perfectly, juicy and moist, and Edward even went so far as to compliment it, even sans flambé.

We retreated to the couch, and PV leapt up into the space between us, prostrating herself for a belly rub, and Edward obliged.

"Thanks for this," he said after a minute, setting his wine down and turning toward me. "No one has cooked for me in a long time."

"I can see why," I said with a snort. "You're kind of a pain in the ass."

"I see myself more as helpful."

"Hmm. An interesting interpretation."

Bored now that she was no longer the center of attention, PV abandoned ship, leaving us to our own devices. I realized with a mild panic that she'd been serving as a sort of buffer, and that now there was nothing between us.

Edward draped his arm casually over the back of the couch, seemingly content. I realized I didn't want the evening to end.

"Do you still have room for dessert?" I asked, needing to do something to busy myself. If I just stayed occupied, I wouldn't think about the way the rolled cuff of his shirt highlighted his toned forearm or the way his lips molded gently over the rim of the glass as he drank.

"Always - as long as I'm not making it."

I hit my hand against my chest in mock-horror. "A weakness in the Cullen armor? I don't believe it."

"Believe it. I may be an excellent chef," he said, flashing his teeth in a smile, "but my dessert skills leave something to be desired."

"Wow. I can't believe you admitted that. I, on the other hand, happen to excel at both. Unfortunately, however, dessert tonight won't showcase my skill. I just picked up some fresh strawberries and cream."

"That's fine by me." Edward set down his glass and stood. "Need some help?"

"I'll hull, you whip." It was difficult to control the smirk that threatened to emerge as I plotted my revenge for the vibrating egg humiliation.

"Perfect."

Foregoing the wire whisk I'd normally use for such a task, I set Edward up with my hand blender and a shallow bowl while I took care of the strawberries and waited for the telltale grating sound.

When I heard the grind of beater against glass, I turned around to find Edward, his navy blue shirt now splattered with droplets of cream.

"You weren't joking," I said, sniggering as Edward wiped at the splotches, only succeeding in rubbing them in further.

Edward scowled, then peered down at the bowl.

"Brilliant. The blasted beater keeps glancing off the blasted side."

"Really? I've used that bowl for making whipped cream loads of times," I lied. "Funny it's never happened to me."

"I'm beginning to think you set me up."

"Oh, me? Never."

I turned back to my task, smiling and pleased with my revenge until I felt something cold and wet on the side of my face.

Gasping, my hand flew up and came away with a smear of cream.

"You're not a very good liar, Chef Swan," Edward whispered in my ear. I turned around and found him standing with the beater in one hand and the bowl in the other. He dipped the beater in the cream again and drizzled it right on top of my head.

I squealed and reached for the bowl, but Edward turned too quickly. Thinking fast, I grabbed some of the strawberries I'd been slicing and smushed them into the back of his head. The juice ran sticky through my fingers.

"Take that!" I cried.

Edward came back in a flash, scooping some half-whipped cream out of the bowl with his hand and painting my face with it.

"It seems two can play this game," he said, pulling me back as I tried to escape.

I whirled in his grip, breaking it and making a dash for the cupboard. Despite Edward's onslaught of more cream, I found what I was looking for, grinning in triumph as I released a cloud of powdered sugar in a giant_ poof_.

"Argh, my eyes!" Edward yelled, doubling over and clutching his face with one of his hands.

"Shit. Are you okay?" I put the sugar down and bent over him.

Edward suddenly launched himself at me with the bowl, coating the front side of my chest with cream as I screeched.

"You tricked me! You limey bastard!"

"All's fair in love and war, Swan," Edward said, reaching for the sugar I'd so stupidly set aside.

By now my entire kitchen was coated in various sticky, sweet substances, as were the two of us. I slipped and fell right on my ass, pulling Edward down with me. The two of us lay flat on our backs, giggling manically.

After a few minutes we settled, and Edward propped himself up on his elbow, looking down.

I clutched my stomach, sore now from laughing, as his eyes sobered.

One of his fingers traced my bare arm, raising the flesh into goosebumps as he drew a trail through the cream. "You look . . ."

"Utterly ridiculous," I supplied, alarmed at the breathy quality to my voice. It was becoming almost impossible to control the thudding of my heart. I feared it was visible, hammering against my ribs as he retraced the same path once again.

"No," he began, but before he could finish, my cell phone rang.

Worse, Emmett had apparently changed my ring tone to "It's Raining Men."

Edward pulled away and stood, dusting himself off before reaching down to help me up. I made a vow to murder whoever had called just when things . . .

I grabbed the phone up from the counter and looked at the caller ID.

Great. My mother.

"Hello? Bella?" she asked in her singsong voice.

"This is my number, yep. Hi, Mom."

Edward stood with his hands in his pockets, watching me with a hesitant expression.

"I'm sorry. Just a second," I mouthed to him before turning away. My mother started blathering on about the weather and her sadness at not hearing from me more often, but I was half a world away trying to figure out what had just transpired between me and Edward. The sound of water ran behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder quickly. Edward stood with his back to me, his hands in the sink.

But then something my mother said drew my attention back to the conversation.

"I know you already spoke to your father," she said, "but I wanted to talk to you myself. I'm here with him right now, you know."

"Oh really?" Wow, so she'd had a long visit after all. I braced myself for the inevitable.

"Honey, I don't want you to be upset, but your father and I are seeing each other."

Seeing each other? I think I may have actually laughed-out-loud.

"It's not funny, Isabella," she said in her most authoritative voice.

"No," I agreed, "it's really not." But my words held double meaning. There's nothing funny about being cock-blocked by your mother. I watched helplessly as Edward wiped down the counters with paper towels, ignoring my silent gesticulations of protest not to bother.

The conversation went on another few minutes, but by the time we finally hung up, Edward had practically cleaned the entire kitchen.

"You really didn't have to do that," I said.

"Well, I started it. And that . . ." He gestured toward the phone. "Is everything okay?"

"Um . . . yeah, just more of the same. My parents are insane. They're 'seeing' each other now. It's official."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

I suddenly felt tired. The silence that fell between us became awkward, fueled by whatever had happened moments ago. Or had I just imagined it all?

"I should probably go," Edward said. "I'm sure you have a busy day ahead of you tomorrow."

"As always. And I'm sure you do too."

He nodded.

I knew there was something I should say . . . but the words remained frozen on my tongue. I was chicken-shit.

"Thanks for dinner," Edward said at the door, quickly pulling me into an embrace.

"Happy birthday," I said, finally getting my bearings and hugging him back. I tried to memorize the feel of his body against mine, tall and strong and sticky.

He released me, stepping out onto the landing. He turned and brushed my hair away from my cheek with hesitant fingers. "It really was."

One corner of his mouth twitched up, and he took another step backward, shoving his hands into his pockets before walking out into the night.

The air around my face where he'd been so close felt charged with electricity fierce enough to sting. What the holy hell had just happened?

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Slow burn . . . hope you're enjoying! Do let me know. **

**xox**

**M**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: SM owns it all. Thanks to Mac214 for betaing, and to Ms. Junkowski, DiamondHeart78 and BellaFlan for pre-reading. Love you ladies. Flanny inspired the chapter title. He he. **

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><p><strong>Chapter 15: My Humps<strong>

Why do I always wind up catering the most obnoxious parties on the Fourth of July? I considered the thousand tiny toothpick flags that had just been delivered with disgust. They'd wind up stuck painstakingly into mini-quiches for a tacky Long Island McMansion celebration in a few days, but for now they only cluttered up my kitchen.

"Yo, Seth?" I called over my shoulder.

He appeared in a flash, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel.

"What's up?"

"Can you just . . . I don't know, put these somewhere?" I motioned to the items with my floury hands, and Seth, grinning, grabbed the bag.

"No problem. Hey, Chef?" he asked as I went back to kneading dough.

"What?" I tried to keep the exasperation out of my tone, but today every little distraction seemed to try my patience.

"I have a box of smokes over in the break room, if you ever wanna bum one."

Clearly my tense demeanor wasn't obvious only to me. I sighed at the thought of a cancer stick but shook my head.

"Thanks, but I really shouldn't."

Why did they ever have to discover cigarettes were bad for you? I longed for the days when housewives and executives lit up with abandon and filled the air with acrid smoke. I sighed. I'd been watching too much _Mad Men_. It was probably just as well I didn't live in that era, what with my tits being relatively small and non-pointy.

"Well, if you change your mind . . ." Seth trailed off as he retreated to a safe distance.

Over a week had passed since the "whipped cream incident," as I'd taken to calling it in my head, and I hadn't seen Edward. Both of us had incredibly tight schedules going into July. He'd gone back to filming, and now that Rose had left, I spent more time than ever at _La Vie_. Though we'd found a great replacement for her position, Kate was still learning the ropes, which meant Emmett and I had more on our plates than ever.

Hah.

I wondered, though, if that was the only reason Edward and I hadn't seen each other. After dinner at my house, I'd replayed our food fight over and over again, imagining how it might have gone if we hadn't been interrupted. Would he have kissed me? It seemed likely, but then I remembered what he'd said that day at Coney Island about wanting to be friends. We'd just gotten caught up in the moment, perhaps. It didn't mean he'd changed his mind. Still, the memory of his full lips, lightly dusted with sugar, haunted me.

When we'd talked on the phone a couple days later I tried not to be weird, but I worried that by trying not to be, I was acting even weirder. And I couldn't tell if Edward was being weird or if he was just tired from all the stress with work.

Weird.

I punched the dough tiredly, shaping it into a ball and covering it with a bowl before untying my apron. All of this worrying had me exhausted. I needed perspective, but since both people I usually turned to for said perspective were busy with their own lives, that left me shit out of luck.

^_^ AAT ^_^

The next day after work, I stopped by the drugstore to pick up my birth control. As my eyes drifted over the countless trashy tabloids, I nearly inhaled the iced coffee I'd just sipped. There, on the cover of one of the most disreputable of all of them, was a picture of Edward looking hot and highly pissed off. But it was the caption that really caught my attention.

_**America's Hottest Chef Edward Cullen Secretly Gay?—Details inside! **_

And right under that:

_**Obama Admits Alien Abduction **_

At least they had their priorities straight. I found Edward's being gay MUCH more interesting than the president being abducted by aliens. Snorting with laughter, I snatched up the magazine, sliding it across the counter to the cashier along with my prescription. Her eyebrows arched in judgment, and I shrugged, giving her a sheepish smile.

As soon as I was outside, I opened the magazine to the article on Edward.

_Celebrity chef Edward Cullen, known for casual romances with models and Hollywood starlets alike, has recently been keeping a lower profile, much to America's chagrin. It's been weeks since the British hottie has been spotted out with any lovely ladies, and a source close to Cullen offered Star Magazine the inside scoop. _

"_He's gay," the source said, "and he's just recently started coming out to his close friends and family."_

_Oh, really? _

_Another insider reports a sighting of the cutie chef cozying up to an older man at a bar a couple days ago, but so far no pictures have surfaced..._

The article continued on to outline all of the evidence pointing to Edward's suspected homosexuality, including his hairstyle and his fastidiousness on his show. By the time I finished the article, I wasn't sure whether to laugh or write the stupid editor a scathing letter about perpetuating gay stereotypes. Of course the irony of the whole thing wasn't lost on me—after all, I was the one with a gay fake boyfriend.

Thinking of Emmett made me miss him, so I punched out a quick text message. The first vote-off would occur after Edward's show that night, and I knew I'd need moral support to watch. That is, if he could get his ass off of Jake's cock for a couple of hours.

He replied a few minutes later.

_Miss you too, chica. I'll come by at 8? _

I sent him a quick message back. _OMG, you're going to leave the love nest? _

_Jake's on duty tonight._

_Oh, THAT explains it._

_Shut up. I'll see you tonight. _

Smiling to myself, I restowed my phone, looking forward to seeing my friend, even if it did feel a little like sloppy seconds.

Back at my apartment, I showered away the stress of the day and fixed myself a quick meal. PV meowed and pawed at her dinner bowl, looking morose.

"You miss your daddy, don't you?"

She looked back at the floor, clearly disinterested in anything but food. Perhaps I was projecting just a teensy bit.

As I filled her dish, my mind mulled over the possibility that Edward really was trying to take control of his image. Despite the gossip mag's general tawdriness, that aspect of it struck a chord—had Edward asked his team to crack down on the man-whore thing? He'd admitted he'd never really cared about how the media viewed him, but maybe he really was fed up with it all. I didn't presume to think it had anything to do with me; the more time I spent with Edward, the clearer it became that he'd been ready for a change. But perhaps our friendship was the push he needed to get his life back on track.

I considered calling him, but since Emmett was due at any moment I really didn't have time to talk. Instead I sent him a text.

_Hey there. I saw an interesting article about you today. Very illuminating. _

Just as I pressed _send_, Emmett rang the bell.

"Coming! I'm coming!" I shouted, skirting my way around PV as she inhaled her dinner.

Emmett grinned and kissed my cheek when I let him in. "Were you?" he asked, passing me a bottle of red.

"Was I what?"

"Were you coming?"

"You're such a perv." I rolled my eyes and grabbed the corkscrew.

"Well, duh."

As I struggled with the cork, my phone buzzed. Emmett snatched it up and peered at the screen, his right eyebrow arching devilishly.

"It's your baby daddy," he reported. "You want me to answer?"

"Hell, no! Gimme that." I set the bottle down and grabbed the phone out of Emmett's hand, trying to keep my voice even.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Bella," Edward said, his pretty voice doing all sorts of crazy things to my girly bits. "I just got your rather enigmatic text."

"Ha, yeah. I couldn't resist."

"You like to tease me, don't you?" Edward posed the question lightly, but it made my heart speed up tenfold. I smiled, and Emmett rolled his eyes before turning toward the cabinet to grab some glasses.

"Maybe just a little," I admitted.

"Well, what's this 'rather illuminating' article you're referring to? I must admit you've piqued my curiosity."

"Oh, it was stupid and offensive. Star magazine seems to think you've switched teams."

Edward chuckled. "I assure you, I'm an Arsenal man all the way."

"Good one. But you know what I mean. So," I teased. "Is it true? Are you seeing a mysterious older man?"

A sputtering sound on Edward's end of the line indicated he'd probably inhaled something. He coughed and cleared his throat.

"A mysterious older man?"

"That's what they said."

Edward's laugh had an edge. "My father is in town on business, and we had dinner a couple nights ago. But no, I have no interest in blokes."

All of a sudden it clicked—here I'd just thought the magazine had entirely fabricated the story, but instead they'd twisted the truth into something truly disturbing.

"Oh, eeew. That's just . . . wrong."

"I think I'm scarred for life."

I laughed in sympathy and made a mental note to burn the magazine. "Me, too. Hey, I didn't know your dad was in town."

"I didn't either - until he was." From Edward's tired and slightly irritated tone, I could tell there was a whole lot more to the story. Everything I'd heard about his dad had rubbed me the wrong way, and the possibility he'd done something else to upset his son riled me up.

Before I could ask him about it, Emmett poked me in the side.

"I'm gonna go watch TV, okay?" he announced. I grimaced and waved him off, wondering if Edward had heard. Fuck, just what I needed—another confirmation I was seeing Emmett, another foot deeper in the hole I'd dug for myself.

"Sorry, am I interrupting?" Edward's question answered mine, but I couldn't discern any emotion in his voice at all. Did he sound a little clipped?

"No, you're not . . ." I sighed, my mind racing . . . I needed to tell him the truth, but I couldn't do it over the phone! What if he hung up? What if he never wanted to speak to me again?

"It's okay. Don't worry about it. I've got to get going myself." He said it casually, evenly, which left me feeling more confused than ever. So he didn't care? God, Edward Cullen would be the death of me.

"Headed to a wild party?" I joked.

"Actually yes," Edward replied, surprising me. I'd gotten used to Edward being too busy to go out. A barb of jealously pricked at my chest, making me wish my night sounded a little more interesting. No way was I admitting I'd been excited to watch his show all day just to get a glimpse of him.

"Oh," I replied dumbly. "Cool."

"I could use some time to unwind."

I wanted to ask him more about the party, and whom he was going with, but the words stuck in my throat. I grew irrationally irritated with us both—me for caring, him for having a life without me.

"Well, have fun." The words came out less enthusiastically than Ben Stein advertising car insurance.

"I'll try. You too . . . ah, goodnight." Obviously he didn't care to elaborate on his plans, so I wouldn't either.

"Okay. 'Night."

Wine in hand, I made my way to the living room feeling like I'd been eviscerated, only to find Emmett lounging on the couch and scrolling through the channels.

"Sorry," I muttered, settling beside him. Emmett turned to me with a calculating gaze.

"Uh-oh."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You've got it bad for le Chef, eh?"

"No . . ." I sputtered. "We're just friends."

"And I'm the Virgin Mary."

I sighed, taking a deep sip of wine and shaking my head.

"I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Tell a sister all about it."

It didn't take much prompting, since I'd been waiting weeks to finally unburden myself. I told Em everything—about the Coney Island non-date, the Gchats, the phone calls. His eyes grew wide as one of Siobhan's lemurs when I got to Edward's birthday dinner.

"So let me get this straight . . . you were practically wrestling on the floor covered in edible substances, and no one had an orgasm?"

I had gotten orgasms—three, to be exact—but only with my vibrator after Edward had left.

"Yeah."

"And you still haven't told him you're single, but you're jealous about him potentially dating other people."

_Well, when you put it that way . . . _

"I suppose so."

"You suppose nothing. Girl, you need to level with this man—what are you afraid of?"

"Fuck, Emmett. I don't know; he told me he was glad we're only friends. And yeah, there have been a couple of moments where there's definitely been tension between us, but he's been with a lot of women. He has tons of chicks throwing themselves at him at any given moment, and I don't even do well keeping non-famous men interested in me. I mean, look at what happened with Felix."

I finished my little diatribe in a huff, flicking the channel to the Food Network. How pathetic - I was watching his show even though he was probably out on the town with some slutbag. Thoughts of the big bosomed Athena made me cringe.

"So you're scared of being hurt again."

My eyes drifted to the television, where a very tense-looking Edward was confronting his eight contestants. Tonight after the show the first vote-off would take place. I secretly hoped America would be kind to him and get rid of Zafrina, but I had my doubts.

"I don't know if I can trust him, Emmett. I mean, he seems different now and sorry for leaving without a word, but . . . I don't know."

"Sheesh, you know how to hold a grudge. I hope I never get on your bad side."

He shuddered in mock-horror, and I punched his shoulder. "Yeah, well, you better watch out."

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe he just said that stuff about wanting to be just friends _because_ he thinks you're taken?"

"Why would he do that?"

"Think, Bella. To cover his own ass - same reason you made up the boyfriend thing to throw him off."

"As I recall, it was your brilliant idea to make out with me at Lady Gaga's." Now that's a sentence I never expected to say.

Emmett laughed and shook his head. "I guess it was, wasn't it. Well, anyway, you're the one who's kept it up."

"Yeah, I guess. God, this is so stupid." A close up shot of Edward, sweaty and manning the kitchen grill, caught my attention. I must have been gaping like a wide-mouth bass because Emmett waved his hand in front of my face.

"Earth to Bella." He grinned when I turned back to him, my face heating at being caught mid-ogle.

"Sorry."

"Listen, the both of you are being idiots. I mean, the man had you on the floor covered in whipped cream, and he didn't make a move? I'm gay and hell, I'd go for it."

I chuckled, remembering the Star article. "Apparently Edward is, too."

After I'd explained about the tabloid article, which Emmett found vastly entertaining, making several problematic comments that had me simultaneously shuddering and laughing, I felt a bit better.

"Listen, I'm not recommending you make some sort of grand gesture or anything. All you can do is tell him you're single and see what happens."

"I'll feel so stupid."

"That's only gonna get worse the longer you wait."

"You're right . . . you're totally right. I'm just . . . ugh. I have issues."

"Everyone has issues, bee bee. But are you going to let them stand between you and what you want? That's not the Bella I know. The Bella I know is fierce."

I leaned forward to refill my wine. "Okay, Tyra. Thanks for the pep talk."

"Anytime, darling."

We refocused on the show just in time for Zafrina's personal interview. She looked tired and a lot less sure of herself than she had been the past week. I almost felt sorry for her.

Nah. The hell I did.

"I really hope I prove to America that I'm ready for this job," she said, widening her eyes in fake sincerity. "Chef Cullen and I have had our differences, but I want this more than anything." She licked her full lips and smiled innocently.

"Yuck," Emmett said. "The silicone store called and wants its titties back."

If the thought of Edward working with her for six months hadn't pissed me off, I'd have laughed.

"God, I can't watch this anymore," I said, flicking off the TV. "It's too painful."

"I agree."

"So, enough of my stupid life - what's going on in yours?"

Emmett leaned back and braced his arms on the back of the couch, but the way his knee bounced indicated his agitation.

"There is something, but I really wanted to tell you and Rosie together." Rose was on assignment in Chicago, though, and wouldn't be back for another couple days. I nudged him with my toe.

"Spill it."

"You're gonna think I'm nuts." He laughed and ran his fingers through his cropped hair.

"I already think you're nuts. Fucking tell me."

"Fine," he agreed, puffing his cheeks in a forced exhale. "But you have to promise to keep your trap shut until I can tell her."

"I'm going to cut you unless you tell me right now."

"I'm going to ask Jake . . . to marry me." The grin that spread over his face after he said the words lit up his eyes and indicated his complete seriousness. But I was completely shocked-nothing he could have said would have prepared me for that news.

"Holy shit! But you just met his parents . . ." Emmett had told me the meeting had gone well, but I didn't know it had gone THAT well.

"That's actually one of the things that made me think about it . . . they're pretty traditional, and I got the feeling they were happy he was in a relationship . . ."

"Whoa. That's a huge step, Em." I tried to rein in my protective impulse; Em and Jacob hadn't even been back together for two months . . . but I didn't want to rain on his parade either.

"I know, I know. I said you'd think I was crazy."

"I don't think that at all," I replied, putting my hand on his knee. "You're really serious?"

He nodded, his smile growing again. "He's it for me."

"What do you think he'll say?"

"Well, yes, if he knows what's good for him."

"He'd be a moron not to."

Suddenly all of my angst over Edward seemed insignificant in light of Emmett's proclamation. He was about to put himself out there in a terrifying, exhilarating way, and I couldn't even be honest with myself. Breaking me out of my thoughts, Emmett enveloped me in a bone-crushing bear hug, planting a kiss on the top of my head.

"Good luck," I said as he finally released me. "But somehow I don't think you'll need it."

"I hope you're right." Emmett smirked. "Though if what he screamed last night is any indication . . ."

"Screamed?" I asked before thinking better of it. I shook my head. "Never mind. I don't think I want to know."

After Emmett left, I checked my cell phone, surprised to have missed a text message from Edward.

_Hi_.

That's all it said.

_Hi yourself. _I replied back. Then I checked my clock—it was only after midnight. He probably hadn't returned from the party yet.

But after I'd performed my nightly ablutions, my phone buzzed again.

_Sorry if I ws short with you earlir _

_No, I'm sorry; I was being weird. Did you have fun?_

From the unusual misspellings in his text message, I figured he'd had quite a few whiskeys.

_A bit But I called it an early night_

That particular text filled me with such selfish joy I could barely contain my grin. I decided not to think too hard about the "bit" of fun. Before I could respond, another text came through.

_Why is the ceiling spining?_

I rolled my eyes, settling down into the covers.

_Because you're drunk as a skunk. _

_Not skunk. More like a camel_, came the reply.

_Why like a camel? _

_They can drink a lot. And they hump_

_You mean they have humps, _I clarified, hoping to god there was no humping going on. Given Edward's state of inebriation, I figured it unlikely. My phone buzzed again.

_My hump, my hump, my hump, my humps_

_Maybe that article was right about you. You're quoting the Black Eyed Peas?  
><em>

_Dunno. Who are they?_

_You know, you're less funny when you're drunk. _I hit send and waited for the snarky, indignant reply.

_You're right. You know what is funny? _

_What?_

_So many people tonight, but not the person I want 2 see. _

My throat went dry, and a desire to take care of him overwhelmed me. With shaky hands, I typed out the one word question.

_Who? _

I waited five minutes. Nothing. Ten.

No longer capable of sleep, I stared at the ceiling, cell phone in hand. He'd probably passed out.

Maybe he didn't mean me.

Maybe he did.

With an unsettled mind, I at last drifted into a fitful sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Things are coming to a head . . . So let me know what you think! Thank you for all of your reviews and support.  
><strong>


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: SM owns it all. Thanks to my dearest Mac214 for betaing and to DiamondHeart78, Ms. Junkowski, and BellaFlan for prereading! **

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><p><strong>Chapter 16: Yes<strong>

I woke up on Sunday with the phone buzzing near my ear. A one-word text from Edward brought the night before flooding back in a rush of nerve-wracking clarity.

_Ouch._

I sat up groggily and typed a reply. _Feeling the pain, eh? _

_A bit. I'm sorry. _

My heart rate picked up as I considered what to say. Perhaps a joking approach would be best, given the circumstances.

_Oh, don't be; your secret Fergie obsession is safe with me. _

_My reputation is in your hands. _

Clearly he wasn't going to answer the question I'd posed—who, exactly, he'd wanted to see at the party. I decided to let him off the hook, especially since he thought I'd been with Emmett the night before. My conversation with Em about being forthcoming niggled at the back of my mind.

A few seconds later another text came through. _I should remember never to drink and use technology. Another thing we have in common._

Of course; my drunken cat-daughter email had started all of this in the first place.

_Touché. But I admit I might be worse than you. _

_What are you doing this afternoon? _

I glanced at the clock and sighed—I needed to get to La Vie to finish prepping for the Fourth.

_Work, unfortunately. What's up? _

_That's too bad; I'd hoped you were free. I'd like to talk to you. In person. _

My stomach clenched with nerves as I went over my schedule in my mind. As much as I wanted to see Edward, the first week of July was absolutely crazy. I tried to think of any way we might meet, but it just seemed impossible.

_Lots of parties tomorrow. You know, to celebrate America's independence from the cruel yoke of tyranny. _

_Ah yes, the bleakest day of American history. _

_Someone's spoiling for a fight. _

_Sorry. Apparently I shouldn't use technology while hung-over, either. _

I let out a half-laugh, half-yawn and tried to think of how to bring the conversation back to a potential meet-up.

_What about later this week? Tuesday?_

_I'm swamped until Friday evening. Dinner? _

_Are we eating in or out? _

Just as I pressed send, I slapped my hand to my forehead. He was definitely going to take that the wrong way.

_Or the right way_! Mom-voice screeched.

As expected, a few beats later I got another text.

_Which do you prefer? ;-) _

_In. And you're a perv. _

_Out_, Mom-voice complained. _Definitely out._

My phone buzzed again. _Yes, I am. And that sounds good. Come to my place. I've got a new recipe for you._

My stomach did that annoying lurching thing, letting me know Edward affected me much more than he should. Much more than any man had since . . . fuck. Well, since Edward.

_One of grandma's? _

_No, not this time. One of mine. _

_Sounds good. I'm looking forward to it._

_Me, too._

Maybe he hadn't answered my question, but I didn't care anymore - not with the plans we'd made. Now I had a few days to figure out how to tell Edward about Emmett, and perhaps he would understand after all.

I climbed out of bed feeling energetic. A quick glance at the clock told me I could make it to yoga before I needed to be at _La Vie_. The day was looking up.

^_^ AAT ^_^

The next few days passed in a blur of grilled meats and red, white and blue food coloring, leaving me exhausted come Thursday morning. I'd given most of the staff half a day off to recuperate, which left just Seth, Laurent, and I dragging our feet in the kitchen.

At around ten we took a short break to chat, and Laurent remembered something. "Oh, dey es a package for you; eet is in de walk-in."

That perked me right up—I set down my knife and tried not to run; I had a feeling I knew who'd sent it.

_Bella, _

_I thought you might want to whip something up for tomorrow if you have the time since we never got to enjoy dessert at your house. _

_Edward_

Inside the Zabar's bag was a pint of organic cream, premium cocoa powder, and ladyfingers along with a couple of pints of raspberries - I immediately began dreaming of chocolate raspberry trifle; all I'd need was some custard. How very English. The possibility that Edward remembered our whipped cream fight fondly—and maybe even wanted a repeat—made my stupid heart pound.

But on Friday morning an email in my inbox completely deflated my earlier ebullience.

_Subject: Crap. _

_From: Edward Cullen_

_To: Isabella Swan_

_Hi Bella,_

_I'm just about to run out the door; turns out I have an emergency filming day. I'm afraid I'll have to cancel dinner tonight, as it might go quite late. Please accept my apologies,_

_Edward_

He didn't even make plans to reschedule, I thought dejectedly as I shut down my computer. The formality and brevity of the email bothered me while I showered and dressed. Obviously he hadn't expected the last minute development, but I couldn't discern if he'd just been in a rush or if something else about the tone seemed off.

Well, nothing could be done about it now, and the over-analysis only gave me a pounding headache. I decided not to worry about it until I spoke with him again. There was work to be done.

As I rounded the corner to _La Vie_, my ears perked up. Something was going on. Loud raucous laughter mixed with salsa music spilled out into the street, making a couple passersby turn their heads.

Inside, the frenetic atmosphere discombobulated me for a second; that is, until I saw Emmett and Jacob standing in the middle of the kitchen with their arms slung around each other. With Jacob's form-fitting cop uniform and Emmett's studded leather collar, they looked like two members of the real life Village People. Which was fitting, I supposed, since that's where they lived.

"He said yes!" Emmett bellowed when he saw me. The wide grin plastered across his face bespoke pure elation. Though not so emotive as his partner, Jacob looked just as happy. He beamed at Emmett, his dark brown eyes full of love.

Someone thrust a glass of champagne into my hand and squeezed me from behind.

"Hey, baby!" Rose whispered in my ear. "Isn't it fabulous?"

I turned my head and grinned. "It really is. Hey, when'd you get back?"

"Just last night."

While I had tons of questions to ask about the new job, I decided to save them for later. Emmett and Jacob approached and gave me violent hugs, making the drink in my hand slosh.

"He said yes," Emmett repeated in a dazed voice.

"I'm so happy for you guys," I said thickly, willing myself not to cry as I reined in the proud mama bear in me.

"How did he propose?"

Jacob smirked. "He handcuffed me to the bed with my own cuffs and threatened to leave me there until I said yes."

"Shut up, I did not," Emmett said, poking Jake in the side. He turned back to me and rolled his eyes. "He's embellishing."

"He didn't really have to go through with his threat. I said yes right away," Jacob amended.

"Wow, you guys," I said, taking a sip of my drink. "That's so romantic."

"Oooh, then what happened?" Rose's eager expression almost made me snort wine out of my nose.

Emmett waggled his eyebrows. "I'll tell you later, babycakes."

"What's later?" I asked.

"Celebration, woman! We're going out on the town."

"Sounds good. Where to?" Not like I had plans anymore, anyway.

"Therapy."

The Hell's Kitchen spot was one of Emmett's favorite gay bars, but we always joked about its apt name.

"Good," I muttered, draining the rest of my champagne. "I need it."

"So do we all," Rose agreed.

^_^ AAT ^_^

Though we had a lot of work to get done that evening, the kitchen staff shooed me out when I tried to help.

"Go have fun," Irina insisted. "We'll finish up here and meet you later." I glanced from her to Laurent to James, and they all nodded.

"You guys are the best," I said, untying my apron. I really was eager to go.

After changing quickly at my apartment and taking a cab to Therapy, the private room Emmett had booked was already filled with coworkers and friends. I nodded at a few of Emmett's buddies and scanned the room for Rose. Always the quintessential fag hag, I located her surrounded by a hoard of men, martini in hand. Something she said made everyone laugh, and I imagined her ragging on some random celebrity she'd met the previous weekend. Rose had always been a great storyteller.

"Wow," I said as I joined the group. "Your tits are amazing in that top."

"I know," she replied with a grin. "You're looking pretty fine yourself, chica. Maybe you'll score tonight."

I hadn't had much time to put together an outfit, but I felt confident in what I was wearing.

"Thanks, but I doubt it." My employees were the only straight men in the club, after all. And if I was honest with myself, only one man interested me at the moment. Wanting to change the topic, I asked Rose about Chicago. She'd been on a tour of ten different restaurants, assisting another food writer with reviews, and had apparently had a blast. Finally, though, she steered the conversation back to me.

"So, what's the latest with the douchenozzle?" she asked, raising her eyebrows and taking a sip of her drink. I could tell under her faux innocent expression she knew a lot more than she was letting on. Damn Emmett and his big mouth.

I sighed and told her about the cancelled dinner.

"That's not that big a deal. I wouldn't read too much into it. The man obviously has the hots for you."

"Maybe," I muttered, not so sure myself.

"Hey, sistas!" Emmett called out, throwing his arms around our shoulders. "Let's dance."

Soon we'd formed an impromptu dance floor in the center of the room; it was just like old times, except, of course, Emmett was engaged. Jacob swooped me up into a hug, and before I knew it I'd become the filling in a Jacob/Emmett sandwich.

After a few songs, I made my way to the bar to get congratulatory drinks for the boys, Rose trailing behind to assist.

"What do you think they want - tequila?" I asked, fishing out my wallet.

"Maybe something fancier."

"I don't think Jake does fancy."

"He does Emmett," she quipped.

Before I could respond, Rose's eyes went wide as they focused in the direction of the entranceway of the main club.

"Don't look yet," she said, glancing back to me. "But shit."

Disregarding her warning, I turned. At first my gaze settled on Emmett and Jake, dancing and locked in a tight embrace. I almost asked her what the problem was—but then I saw it. Or him. Not three paces away from the newly engaged couple stood Edward.

"_Oh, shit_ is right," I whispered weakly. As if he felt my stare, Edward turned towards Rose and me slowly, his eyes narrowing as he stalked his way across the floor. His smooth, long strides had a predatory edge; damn, he looked hot. Angry and hot.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Hello, Bella," he said in a smooth voice before acknowledging my friend. "Rose, right?"

She extended her hand. "Good to see you again, Edward."

The three of us stood staring at one another.

"How did you know I was here?" I blurted, unable to stand the tension.

"I stopped by _La Vie en Rose_ when I got off and ran into some of your kitchen staff. They told me you'd come here."

"Oh."

"Bella," Edward whispered, leaning close. "I hate to break it to you, but I think your boyfriend is a bit of a poof." His warm breath tickled my ear, and I drew back, feeling shaky. The inscrutable expression on his face was almost impossible to interpret. I glanced back at Emmett and Jake, who were now grinding to some Rihanna song with their tongues down each other's throats.

"Uh, yeah. I guess you could say that."

Edward crossed his arms. Why did I have the feeling I was about to get a spanking for being a naughty girl? All of a sudden I envisioned myself bent on all fours wearing nipple clamps, but quickly shook the image out of my head.

Rose touched my shoulder lightly. "I'm just gonna go . . . somewhereelsefaraway. Bye!"

Ah, the traitor! Once she'd gone, I turned back to Edward, smiling sheepishly despite my nerves.

"I was going to tell you today, but you . . . shit." I sighed, leaning against the bar to steady myself. "I'm a big fat liar." _And now you probably hate me._

Surprisingly, the corner of Edward's mouth twitched up into the beginning of a smirk.

"I know."

"Yeah, now you know."

"No, I meant I knew you were lying . . . at least I thought I knew. You and Emmett weren't the most _convincing_ couple. And I may have made . . . inquiries."

I couldn't stop myself from batting him on the arm.

"You spied on me!"

"A little."

"Stalker. Why didn't you call me out, then?"

As he glanced around the room, Edward ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up wonkily. I resisted the urge to smooth it down. Without another word, he led me towards the back of the room—a small alcove for coats gave us a little more privacy.

"The answer to your question," he began, "is I didn't understand _why_ you were doing it. I gave you so many chances to tell me the truth, but you didn't. Was the thought of my being interested in you so frightening you needed to lie? Or has this whole friend thing just been an act, another way for you to get revenge for something I did when I was a stupid kid?" His expression hardened with the articulation of the second option, and I wanted to kick myself for giving him that impression.

"No, no! The friend thing isn't an act. I've been trying to figure out a way to tell you the truth, but the longer it went on, the harder it was. I was going to tell you tonight . . ." I flushed, desperate for a way to explain that didn't make me sound like a psychopath.

Edward seemed to consider what I'd told him. He leaned closer. "But _why _did you do it, Bella? I hate that you felt the need to lie, not when you've been so honest with me."

I tried to focus on what I needed to say and not his distracting proximity. I glanced down, which was a mistake. His grey button-down shirt was rolled at the sleeves, giving me a glimpse of those lickable forearms. A thin, crescent-shaped burn scar I'd never noticed before was barely visible in the dim club light. As long as I didn't look him in the eye, I could concentrate. Right.

"It's stupid. You were with Fish Sticks at Lady Gaga's, and I thought you were a man-whore, and Emmett just randomly kissed me and convinced me it would be a good idea and then I got to know you and you said you just wanted to be friends, but then I really started to like you and I wanted to tell you the truth and I swear I was going to today but you canceled . . ." I trailed off, trying to control my rambling. It didn't escape my notice that I'd inadvertently admitted to liking Edward.

"What was that?"

I clapped my hand over my mouth. "What was what?"

"That last bit."

"You cancelled?"

"No, just before that." He smiled, looking more than a little cocky. "You like me."

"Of course. You're my friend."

"I don't think that's what you meant, is it?" He leaned down, his lips just barely grazing my ear as he spoke. I felt caged in by his body and, god help me, I liked it.

"It isn't?" My voice came out in a breathy, porn-star whisper that was scarcely audible under the thrumming bass. I felt like all of the oxygen had been sucked out of the room, and the only way I'd be able to breathe again was through mouth to mouth resuscitation. As if sensing my agitation, Edward's hand gently cupped my elbow to draw me closer.

"No."

"Yeah, fine. That's not what I meant."

"What do you want, Bella?" His words sent soft puffs of air against my cheek.

"I don't know." I wanted him, but it seemed impossible. How could it ever work between us? With our crazy schedules, we could barely fit in time for each other as friends.

"What do you want right now?"

_I want your tongue in my mouth!_

Oh, shit, had I just said that out loud? Edward's eyebrows quirked up in surprise, a look quickly tempered by a naughty grin.

"I think that can be arranged."

Crap. I guess I had. Or good. He seemed okay with it. _Focus. _

"I thought you just wanted to be friends," I said stupidly, mesmerized by his spicy, sweaty scent and the way his fingers kneaded my back, just at the hem of my shirt.

"I never said that, Bella. I said we were _probably _better off . . . I know how you feel about the media. I don't want you to have to deal with that part of my crazy life."

Something about his tone, the doubt in his eyes made want to comfort him. I finally let my hands grasp his sides, nearly sighing at the heat of his skin radiating through the thin fabric. Oh my, he was firm.

"I don't know if I fit," I confessed. I meant it metaphorically, but physically we fit perfectly. He urged me closer into his circle of warmth.

"I want you to fit. I want you." His other hand lifted my chin and I could see the sincerity in his eyes, the desire. How had I managed not to perceive it before?

"You do?"

"God, yes, you daft, infuriating woman."

All of the tentative touches were driving me mad; I just wanted to plaster myself against his body and dry hump him against the wall. I needed to clear my head to finish the conversation, but that was becoming increasingly difficult with the way he touched me. His fingers slid against my waist, barely breaching the fabric of my shirt.

"But I still don't understand . . . why did you let me carry on about Emmett when you knew?"

"I hoped you'd tell me when you were tired of keeping me at arm's length, if you ever were. I can see you're scared of this."

"I'm not."

"Liar."

"I'm not scared."

"You're afraid of me."

"Maybe just a little."

"Don't be. I won't hurt you. Not this time."

"Edward, I—" I didn't even know what I was planning to say; his words were dangerous, melting the last of my resistance. And if I let him, he would strip me utterly bare.

"I've been going crazy, when all I really want to do is this." His head bent, and his lips met the sensitive flesh at the base of my throat, sending a jolt of pleasure tingling down to my toes.

"You're not mad at me?" I asked, trying not to shiver as he kissed the same place again. Whether or not it was a good idea, my body yielded to him.

"No, I'm bloody relieved." His thumb gently traced the bow of my lip, making it tingle. "Last week, when I sent you that text message, it was you. You were the one I wanted to see. The only one."

"Oh," I replied. Somehow my hands had wound into his hair, tugging him closer again. He murmured his approval in my ear, nuzzling into my hair. We hadn't even done anything yet, and I felt ready to explode.

"Is this okay?" he asked.

"Yes, very."

Edward's body finally fully connected with mine. And, oh my, he was hard. I might have let out an embarrassing sigh, while internally squealing _holy shit Edward Cullen's cock is hard and pressed up against me and I fucking love it_. At first I worried I'd spoken aloud again but then his lips sought mine softly, vanishing all other thought. I tilted my head and drew his tongue into my mouth, tasting salt and something vaguely sweet that might have been scotch or caramel.

God, I kinda hated whoever taught Edward how to kiss. He was fucking brilliant at it. He broke away for a second to nip at the side of my mouth, the curve of my throat, and then his mouth was back on mine, becoming more demanding as his hands cradled my head. The slow, lazy desire that had been building for so long flamed, making me bold. I pressed my hips forward and felt the vibration of his groan against my mouth. I needed to be lower and preferably naked. Just as the thought entered my mind, Edward whispered in my ear breathily.

"Come home with me."

He must have felt me tense with his unexpected words because he pulled away, his eyes cloudy with lust and a hint of trepidation. "I'm sorry - that was presumptuous. That's not what I want. I mean, it is, but it's not the only thing, and now you probably think—"

"Hey, Edward?" I interrupted. He'd moved his hips away from mine again, and that was NOT okay.

"Yeah?"

"Shut up and kiss me again."

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><p><strong>AN: Sooo . . . ::twiddles thumbs:: ::whistles casually:: You like? **


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: SM owns it all. **

**I had a lot of help on this chapter, so many thanks to Mac214, my beta extraordinaire, and Bella Flan, Ms. Junkowski, and DiamondHeart78. I big fat puffy heart you all. **

**Um... this is where we start to earn our M rating, folks. JSYK. **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 17: Naked is Better<strong>

I barely remembered saying goodbye to Rose, Emmett, or Jake. The next thing I knew, Edward led me through the main club, our hands clasped tightly together. The dim lights assured he wouldn't be easily recognized—and anyway, most of the clientele was otherwise occupied. A few people gave us odd looks but probably only because we were running out of there like queens to a Barney's sale.

"This way," Edward leaned back to murmur in my ear all the while dragging me down a corridor I didn't know existed. "I parked in the back."

"You parked?"

"Yes, of course. I can drive, Bella."

"I know. I just thought . . ." He silenced me with another kiss.

_Right. Shut up and get a move on. _

A couple of strange hallways and staircases later, we spilled out into the back alley. A few cars lined the narrow strip of pavement, and Edward stopped in front of a black one, digging in his pocket for keys, presumably.

My eyes widened as I recognized the make. My father had made a point to teach me about cars when I was a kid, and this was one of his favorites.

"An Aston Martin?"

Edward shrugged and opened the passenger door. "What?" He smirked. "I'm English."

"You're such a geek."

That didn't stop me from clambering into the car and fastening my seatbelt. Edward popped around the other side and revved the engine for effect.

"How fast does this thing go?" I asked.

"Fast." He glared. "It's not geeky."

"Oooo-kay," I drawled, unable to resist taunting him. I secretly thought it was a hot car.

It only took ten minutes to get back to his place; despite his cockiness, Edward actually proved his geekitude by being a very responsible driver. I feigned offense when he threw out his arm as we came to an abrupt stop at a light, accidentally grabbing my boob with his outstretched hand in the process.

He said it wasn't on purpose, but I had my doubts. I knew he was only trying to get back at me for making fun of him.

We rode the elevator holding hands, and suddenly my pulse quickened. I hoped my palms weren't sweaty. I hoped I'd worn acceptable panties. I wiggled a little; at least it was a thong. Luckily, my beaver had been recently trimmed and shaved-but not into a weird heart or anything. I preferred my pubic hair natural but tame. Like an English country house garden. Cuntry house. Ha!

"What's so funny?" Edward murmured, placing a hand on my hip. I shook my head and kissed him again, thanking the Lord for slow elevators.

Edward's apartment was as I remembered but messier. A few items of clothing were draped over his sofa, and newspapers and mail covered the coffee table. I smiled, watching him corral the mess. Obviously, he hadn't been expecting company, which kind of pleased me.

"Don't worry about it. It's actually comforting to know you're not a neat freak."

"Okay then," Edward said, dropping the items he'd gathered on a chair. "I didn't feel like cleaning anyway."

He ran his hands through his hair, and my breath caught in my throat as he stalked toward me, a wicked gleam in his eye. His fingertips skimmed along my side before following the curve of my waist to rest against my spine, rubbing and dipping against the grooves of my vertebrae. My arms chained him to my body, the air between us thick with unspoken desire – maybe he'd thought we'd said enough at the club.

I wasn't so sure about that; I'd confessed, sure, but we both had things to get out of the way. His mouth was open, his jaw slack as if he was about to say something, but then his lips descended, touching my neck much less gently than the last time. The nip of his teeth pinched slick against my throat; my head lolled to the side to accommodate him until a horrible thought ploughed through my lust-addled brain: I didn't want my clients or my staff to see giant bruises on my neck.

"If you give me a hickey I'm going to kick your ass," I whispered, rubbing my cheek against his.

"You can give me one," Edward suggested. "Be my guest." He offered his neck, but I kissed it, just the lightest of pecks. Imagining _Star Magazine_ making up all sorts of strange rumors about Edward's gay lovers leaving hickeys was just too weird.

"I can't believe I'm here."

"Me neither."

"But I'm glad."

"Me too." He drew back for a second, his eyes squinting in the darkness. "Do you want a drink or something?"

_Not unless it's your spunk._ Oh my God, when had I become such a dirty slut?

"No," I said, shaking my head. My hands trembled as they reached for his collar. I wanted this shirt. Off.

"Good. Neither do I."

"Are you just agreeing with everything I say?"

"If I said yes, would I be agreeing with you?"

"Yes. And you don't need to."

"Okay."

"Stop it."

Edward laughed breathlessly. "Sorry."

His eyes had taken on a sort of glazed, horny look, and I really couldn't fault him for being so silly. When I pressed against him, his erection made itself known against my hip, so I figured he'd had a hard-on for at least a half-hour. A man couldn't be held accountable for being inarticulate in such a state.

"So what-" he began.

"Bed."

"Yes. Right." He looked a bit dazed, as if realizing for the first time that this was truly going to happen. Then he smiled, and I'm pretty sure I got a ladyboner.

Edward's bedroom was the only part of his apartment I'd yet to see. Not that I could really see it since it was dark as hell. We stumbled, our legs twined together as our hands removed shirts, pants, and undergarments. By the time we fell onto the bed in a heap of elbows and knees, I was pretty sure the only thing between us was my embarrassingly wet undies. I ran my hands over the swell of his ass and he groaned, pressing me into the mattress as his mouth sought mine. I could probably kiss him for the rest of my life and not get bored. Or at least for a few years without stopping.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his hands tracing a warm, rough path down my torso. And then his mouth abandoned mine to suck one of my nipples into his mouth. I sighed and arched, offering him the whole lot, since he seemed to know what he was doing with them, unlike some guys I'd been with. He didn't grab and pull, or do that weird steering wheel motion with my tit in his palm; instead, he used his lips and tongue to slowly drive me out of my mind. I didn't remember Edward being such a breast man, but tastes change. Literally. I laughed at my own joke.

"If you keep laughing like that," Edward panted, taking my head between his hands, "I'm going to get a complex."

"I can't help it . . . this is just funny. After all this time. Us."

Edward emitted a strange sound, almost akin to a growl, and traced the edge of my ear with his tongue. His hand slipped beneath the waistband of my underwear, effectively ending my giggle-fest. He rubbed my clit lightly, dipping his fingers into me and circling again.

"And is this funny?" he asked.

I shook my head, my pelvis rocking against his hand. "Not really."

He added a second finger to the dip and swirl motion as his mouth traveled over my collarbone and back to my breasts. Fuck, he really knew how to use his hands. The ache began to build, and I groaned and reached, wanting to feel him too.

Edward obliged, his hips thrusting forth. I finally circled his length with my fingers, loving the girth and soft-hardness. When I reached the tip, I grasped his foreskin hesitantly, not sure how much pressure was too much. Since Edward, I'd only seen one uncircumcised peen, and I'd hardly had the chance to explore. After a few passes, I decided I needed some lube, and so I did what any self-respecting woman would do: licked my palm thoroughly and went back to stroking.

"I can't believe you just did that," Edward said with a moan.

"Sorry. I . . . is that gross?"

"No, it's unbelievably sexy."

"Oh. Good. This feel okay?"

"Mmmm, yes."

Rather pleased with myself, I resumed my ministrations, though distracted by Edward's hand between my own legs. He pressed his thumb against me, and I gasped, knowing if he continued I'd come in no time. It'd been a while since any hands but mine had been down my pants. And the knowledge that they were Edward's, well, let's just say I was glad to be a woman and that premature ejaculation wasn't a concern.

But then his hands were gone, and so were my underwear, and I found myself pinned completely, deliciously, under Edward's naked body. At that first flush of skin-to-skin contact I sighed, feeling the warmth and weight of him. He kissed me softly, his tongue teasing my lower lip before sliding inside, melding our mouths together. And then he was there-right fucking there. Exactly where I wanted him to be.

There were probably jokes to make about appetizers and main courses and desserts, but none of that seemed appropriate. I wanted his cock to fill me up, and I wanted it now. His lips dipped to mine again before pulling away.

"I'll be right back." He abandoned the bed and cursed. I could see him holding his foot in the light streaming in from the hall, which also gave me quite a nice view of Edward's shapely ass. But I shouldn't be gawking if he was hurt.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, I just stubbed my bloody toe."

"Well, hurry!"

"That's why I stubbed it," he grumbled.

I stretched my arms above my head, rubbing my legs together on the soft, messy blankets. Before I knew it, Edward had returned, his reason for leaving obvious as he tore into the box of condoms. Though I was protected, I figured it wouldn't hurt, given his previous . . . extracurriculars. And now was NOT the time to think of that. Still, it seemed to be a fresh box—now that, I liked.

After he'd rolled one on, he turned his attention back to me, kissing and nipping his way back up my body. By now my eyes had adjusted to the darkness; I could see his face more clearly as it hovered above mine. Our eyes met, a silent understanding passing between us. Later, there could be talking and figuring things out. Right now, all I wanted was him.

"This isn't just one night for me, Bella," he said, brushing the back of his hand against my cheek. "I hope you know that."

I'd been fed a lot of lines by guys with their dicks between my legs, but this one I believed. I nodded, lifting my head to kiss him. And then, with one swift thrust, he was inside.

"Jesus fucking bloody unf." Both of us moaned. He stayed flush against me for a few seconds, perhaps because he thought I needed time to adjust, but I was so ready. Not that I was complaining, though, because it felt so good to have his cock buried in my pussy. I wrapped my legs around him and coaxed him to thrust.

He moved with long, slow, thorough stokes, and I gripped his back, getting lost in the rhythm and the pleasure. All I knew was want when he withdrew and when he filled me again, and again, and again.

Edward groaned and stroked my body with one hand, lifting himself with the other to get a better angle. And then he began to move quicker, and I met his hips with mine, our skin slapping together. Now _this_ was fucking. I internally berated myself for ever settling for something less than this - this all consuming desire and need. And then Edward kissed me again, whispering about how good it felt, and I was really, really close to unraveling completely. But I didn't want it to end, and from the looks of him, neither did Edward. He closed his eyes and let his lips travel wherever they could reach, and my hands drifted over his strong shoulders, his neck, his hair, damp with the sweat from his exertion.

I don't know how long we moved together, but it was an impressively long time. I was poised at the precipice. Edward slowed his pace again, nearly pulling all of the way out with slow, languid movements, and I could tell he was holding back. I really wanted to see him let go, my pleasure was so bound up in his.

"It's okay," I whispered, giving him the universal go-ahead known by women all over the world.

I think he growled. It was hot.

"I'm not done fucking you yet," he said, panting between thrusts. _Well, okay then! Shut up and let the man do his thing! _

He reared up and gathered my legs over his shoulders, canting his hips in such a spectacular way, every stroke hit me right where I needed it. I fisted the sheets in my hands and watched his eyes rake greedily over my breasts, my belly. The sounds he was making nearly drove me out of my mind, and when he reached one hand between my legs to rub my clit, I lost it. My release hit me in waves, rippling out through my body as he continued his unrelenting pace.

I opened my eyes again to the glorious sight of Edward losing control.

"Fuck, Bella . . ." he muttered, and after a burst of quick, deep thrusts, he sunk over me with a guttural moan. Neither of us spoke, our hearts pounding together as our breathing slowed. I ran my fingers through his hair, gently teasing his scalp with my nails.

"Um . . ." I said, when I could finally speak again. Edward was crushing me, and I was about fifty percent sure he'd fallen into an orgasm-induced sleep.

"Hmm?"

Apparently not.

"Hi."

He lifted his head up from where it rested on my chest and smiled. "Hi."

He reached between us and withdrew, and all that crap about the woman feeling empty when the guy pulls out? That's true. I missed his cock. It totally belonged in my vagina all the time. He turned on the light near the side of the bed and kissed me.

"I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere."

Edward disappeared into the bathroom, and I sat on his bed with the sheet wrapped around me, wondering what happened next. So, the friend thing was totally bust. I'd broken my own vow not to ever have sex with Edward Cullen again. Both of those things I was surprisingly okay with. How did Edward feel? What were we now? I felt the uneasy desire to label things I wasn't sure needed labels.

The toilet flushed, and I ran my fingers through my hair and under my eyes to remove any makeup smudges. I fluffed up the pillows and lay back, resisting the urge to fan my hair out over them seductively. That would just be weird. I settled on lowering the sheets to display just a hint of boob.

Edward returned, wearing a pair of pajama pants and no shirt. Now with the light on, I could fully appreciate his body. His chest was so much more defined than I remembered, and the vee where his pelvis and torso joined-_good God_.

He smirked when he saw me staring.

"You're hot," I blurted. Might as well fess up to the ogle; we had already done the horizontal mambo, after all.

Edward climbed back into bed, pulling his pants off in the process. So Edward slept in the buff. Nice. His eyes traveled over my body, pausing on the cleavage I'd left bare. "So are you."

"So who's America's Hottest Chef?" I teased, allowing him to pull me into his arms.

He sighed and kissed my head. "You're definitely hotter than me. But . . . you don't have your own show. I'd say we're even."

"I can live with that."

I snuggled against him, and he stroked my arm lightly. "Will you stay?"

Even though I had to go in to La Vie at some point the next day, it didn't have to be early. And right now I had no desire to be anywhere else. "Yeah, I can."

"Good."

After I'd done a little clean up and good night prep in the bathroom, I returned to Edward's room and took in the scene. He already looked to be dozing, his reddish hair gleaming in the soft lamplight.

I shut it off and slid in bedside him. At the movement, Edward started. He reached out, and I went willingly, snuggling against his chest. Strange how normal this was-my earlier worries about the future had faded, at least for the moment.

"So how did filming go today?"

Edward sighed. "Fine. I'm sorry about dinner, by the way."

"Your note was a little . . . abrupt. I thought you were mad at me."

"No. Not at all; I was mad at the studio. They had a recount of the votes from last week, so we had to do some refilming for tomorrow's show. Bloody last minute timing. The producer's a tosser. Sorry if that came through to you." He sounded so tired; I hated his crazy schedule.

"It's okay. So you know who they voted off?"

"Yes."

"But you can't tell me."

He seemed to consider my statement for a second, absent-mindedly rubbing my arm. "It was Bree."

"Bree?" I said, shocked. "She was one of the best contestants."

"I know." Edward grumbled in the darkness; he'd probably be sporting a frown if I could see his expression.

"That doesn't make any sense. Why would America do something like that?"

I felt him shrug. "To screw me over."

"Fuck, Edward."

"I should never have done this show," he mumbled. I hated the defeated tone of his voice. I wrapped my arms around him tighter, and he squeezed back.

"It's only six months, right? And maybe the voters will come through in the end."

Edward chuckled without mirth. "Perhaps." Then he shifted, moving so we lay face-to-face. He cupped my cheek.

"At least one good thing happened today."

"If you're lucky, maybe it'll happen again tomorrow," I joked.

"That's not what I meant."

"I know."

"Bella, I want this . . . but what do you want? There'll be a lot of interest . . . probably reporters bothering you, maybe even camping outside your flat if they get wind of where you live."

I thought about what he was saying; I'd seen enough entertainment television to know how that kind of attention affected relationships. Ours was still so new, so fragile. I wanted to nurture it, not have it exploited.

"Well, maybe we could keep it between us for now, until the show's over. By that time, the interest should die down, right?"

Edward ran his hands through my hair. "I don't want anyone bothering you. I want to keep you out of this madness."

"Okay, well, so we agree."

He kissed my nose. "We agree."

"But I'm telling my friends."

"Be my guest."

"And my parents."

"Have at it. You're not a secret, Bella. If you want, I'll tell the whole world."

"No, I don't think the world needs to know. They've already had enough entertainment at your expense."

"There will still be rumors. Can you handle that?"

"As long as they're not true. You going to a gay club tonight probably didn't help that one, by the way."

Edward laughed. "Shit, I didn't even think about that."

"You weren't thinking."

"I was. But only about you."

The conversation settled after that, and my eyes grew heavy. Edward was so warm, his arm wrapped securely around me. I let myself drift and finally sleep, lulled by the sound of his even breath.

In the morning, I woke to an empty bed.

Disoriented, I sat and glanced around the room. Edward's apartment. Great sex. Right.

Not really wanting to put on my club outfit, I rummaged around in his drawers, finding a pair of boxers and a tee shirt, hoping he wouldn't mind the intrusion. The soft sounds of morning jazz filtered in through the cracked door, and I smiled, images from the night before returning in flashes. Edward's heated expression at the club, the feel of his arms holding me as we slept. I turned on my heel and went in search of the real thing.

He was, as expected, in the kitchen. I watched him work, each movement so sure and quick, his brow furrowed in concentration. When he heard my movement, he looked up from the stove and smiled.

"Good morning. Come sit. Did you sleep well?"

"Really well. Whatcha cookin'?" I asked, though it was obvious.

Edward smirked, gently folding the egg as he slid it off the pan in one fluid motion. "Lamb shank."

"Hmm. I love lamb shank in the morning."

I sat at the bar and sipped the orange juice that'd been set out for me. Freshly squeezed. Wow. I smacked my lips in appreciation.

Once Edward had plated both dishes, he carried them over and took a seat beside me, reaching out to give my knee a squeeze before leaning in for a kiss. I quickly covered my mouth.

"Morning breath."

Edward chuckled and pulled away. "God forbid."

We tucked into our omelets, which were delicious and simple with just a thin sprinkling of Gruyere.

"What are you up to today?" I asked, before taking another bite.

"Actually I have the day off."

"Lucky." I really wished I didn't have to go into work, but there was a lot of prep to be done for a wedding that evening.

"You need an extra hand in the kitchen?"

"What?" I almost choked on my eggs.

"Today. Do you need any help?"

"You mean at _La Vie_?"

Edward shook his head, sighing in exasperation. "Yes, Bella."

"You want to come chop onions with me?"

"I do."

"Um . . . if you want. I just figured you'd have something better to do than work on your day off."

"If you haven't noticed, I'm a bit of a workaholic." He took a sip of juice. Damn, why was that so sexy? "And anyway, I'd much rather be with you than sitting around here lazing about."

"Okay. Come work for me, and I'll show you a thing or two."

"You will, will you?" he challenged.

I was totally bluffing. Though confident in my own abilities, I couldn't deny Edward was the better chef. By a smidge. "Sure. Let's see if you can handle the heat," I joked, the reference to his show obvious.

Edward smirked again and forked a bite of eggs. "Oh, I think I can handle it just fine. Nice outfit, by the way."

"Thanks."

He finished his food and turned to me.

"You know where it would look even better?"

I gulped. I knew that look. "Where?"

"On the floor."

If we ever left the house, it would be a miracle.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Soooooo. Um. Hope you liked it!**

**I have some good news and some so-so news.**

Good news: I'm writing a Strange Brew outtake for Fandom for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. It's a wonderful cause, so go here to check out other participating authors and to donate for the compilation: http:/fandom4lls(dot)blogspot(dot)com/

So-so news: Next AAT update will most likely be two weeks; I wanted to get this one out to you early, and with my RL getting crazy next week, I can't guarantee an update. I hope you understand!

Xox

M


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: SM owns them; I just make them play with each other. He!**

**A/N: Thanks to Mac214 for betaing, and to Ms. Junkowski for prereading and beta help! **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 18: Too Many Cooks in the Kitchen<strong>

Edward and I finally arrived at La Vie an hour late; after we did the deed yet again I'd had to go back to my place in search of clean, non-walk-of-shame-y clothes. Of course, I'd texted Emmett to give him the heads up and to tell him we had an extra hand in the kitchen. From his response, you'd have thought I'd gone decades without getting laid, rather than months.

_Hells yeah, girl! End of dry spell! Woot woot! But if he hurts you I'll kick his ass. _

Though if I'd hoped my warning would have given everyone a chance to get used to the idea and not embarrass me, I couldn't have been more wrong.

As soon as we entered the kitchen, the room went silent. Irina began a slow clap, and Laurent whooped. The servers milling around tittered and whispered among themselves. The only one who didn't seem scandalized or overly enthusiastic was James, who smirked, shrugged, and went back to whatever he was doing.

"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," Edward whispered from behind me. "I didn't want to make a scene."

"It's not you. It's fine. They'll get over it. They're just . . . excitable." Honestly, I hadn't really thought through the repercussions of bringing Edward to work. Perhaps because I'd been too busy riding his cock.

Irina finally stopped clapping and sauntered over. She put one hand on her hip and extended the other.

"Irina Farrell."

"Edward Cullen."

Edward shook her hand and winced—the woman had a firm grip.

"I know who you are. Seen your show."

"Oh, have you?" He smiled the killer smile.

"Hmm." She released him, giving him an appraising look before crossing her arms. "Most of us in this kitchen have more talent in our little fingers than those idiots."

I glared at her. Sure, it was true, but I hadn't brought Edward here to get called out for no reason. It wasn't his fault, after all. But Edward didn't seem offended at all.

"If you work for Bella, I can believe that."

A few seconds later, Emmett barreled into the kitchen. Before I could yell at him for outing us to the staff, he swept me up into a hug, lifting me off the floor in the process.

"There's my girl!" He gave me a peck on the cheek.

"Put me down," I grumbled, wriggling out of his arms. Edward stood a few feet away, watching the scene with amusement.

"Oh, someone's grumpy. Late night?" He grinned, finally releasing me.

I pushed his arm. "You have such a big mouth, Em."

"What did I do?" The shocked expression on his face was almost comical.

Irina squeezed my arm and then leaned closer. "Don't blame Emmett; we were all there last night. And we're not blind. I mean, after all those _gifts_ you guys exchanged? We even have an ongoing bet." She arched her eyebrow and smirked, pulling away.

My face flamed—apparently my tryst with Edward was old news to everyone in the kitchen. "Oh."

Irina smiled brighter. "Yep. And I win." She turned and called over her shoulder, "Pay up, boys!" Laurent, James, and Seth let out mutual groans.

Emmett chuckled and stuck his hand out toward Edward, who took it and tried not to grimace at the crushing force. What was _with_ my staff and friends trying to kill my boyfriend . . . er . . . Edward?

"Good to see you again," Emmett said.

"Likewise," Edward replied.

They shook for longer than was necessary, almost like they were playing handshake chicken. Finally Emmett released Edward and smiled. "So," he said, "you're here to work in the kitchen?"

"Just for today, yeah."

Emmett raised one thick eyebrow. "Let's hope not. Because once you enter a kitchen, you should stay for a while. You have to explore a kitchen for some time, really get to know it . . .because kitchens have feelings. Kitchens—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," I said, cutting him off with a shove. How had he managed to simultaneously become the most obvious and the most obtuse threat-maker ever? "That's enough, Obi Wan."

While the rest of the staff had gone back to prep, I still worried things would get weird now. Maybe Edward would want to leave.

"Funny you should mention it, Emmett," Edward said. "I feel the exact same way about kitchens." He glanced around the room. "This kitchen in particular feels . . . special."

I rolled my eyes at them both. "You're idiots. This kitchen-as-pussy-slash-woman metaphor is lame. I'm a big girl, Em, and I can take care of myself, though I appreciate your concern. You," I said, addressing Edward, "grab an apron from over in the cubby. There're quails in the walk-in to debone and truss, and an apple-brandy demi-glace to make. Knives're on the magnetic strip in the back, and use a copper-bottomed pot. Think you can handle it?"

Edward grinned and rolled up his sleeves. Damn forearms.

"I do believe I can, Chef."

^_^ AAT ^_^

After we'd finished up in the evening and the rest of the staff had left for the midtown wedding, Edward and I cleaned up, working side-by-side. The day had gone surprisingly well, considering the rather awkward start. We'd gotten in a couple teasing fights about technique, since Edward apparently thought my dicing skills could use a brush up, but I just ignored him. Soon he'd settled into a rhythm with the rest of the staff, and I couldn't believe how quickly the day had flown by.

"So . . ." I said, stubbing my toe against the floor. Edward had just hung up his apron and glanced at me with an unreadable expression. Suddenly nerves sparked in my gut . . . should I invite him over? Or was that too much? He hadn't said anything about nighttime plans all day, but it was Saturday, after all. Maybe he had to work in the morning. Maybe . . .

"Stop doing that," he said, approaching with a smile.

"Doing what?" I tried to appear as innocent as possible. He didn't need to know how my insane brain worked.

"Overthinking things."

"I'm not—" Before I could finish the statement, Edward's arms were around me, his mouth colliding with mine in a bruising kiss. A frission of desire shot up my spine, and I readily complied.

"I've been wanting to do that all day," he murmured, pulling back for a moment.

"Me too." All the same, I was thankful he'd waited until after my employees had left. I'd never have heard the end of it if Emmett had to watch Edward sexing me up.

He pressed me up against the counter, and I yelped as he lifted me, settling me on the surface as his mouth moved against mine. I immediately straddled him with my legs, drawing him closer as his hands travelled down my back to cup my ass. He tasted like apples.

"You've been eating the ingredients," I whispered as we broke apart.

"I was hungry."

"I'm gonna have to dock your pay."

Edward grinned and leaned forward to place a sweet, sucking kiss at the base of my throat. "I'm sure we can work something out."

When his tongue darted out to tease the same place, I nearly died. And when he pulled my pelvis closer to him at the edge of the counter and his hard cock rub against me _right there_, I think I actually did. I died for a second—saw angels, the gates of heaven, all that shit. But then I decided living was much better, especially since I was pretty sure there were no angels hung like Edward beyond the pearly gates.

I couldn't live in a world where his cock didn't exist.

He buried his face in my hair and ran his hands up my spine.

"Mr. Cullen, I'm starting to think you're only in this for my . . . kitchen after all." Sure, I'd completely derailed Edward and Emmett's stupid metaphor earlier, but now it seemed oddly appropriate.

Edward pulled an expression that almost resembled a pout—at least as close to a pout as I'd ever seen on his face.

"Hasn't my toil today at your merciless, slave-driving hands proven anything?" He poked me in the side, and I batted his hand away.

"That you're a glutton for punishment."

"Well, I see I'm going to have to do a much more thorough job of wooing you."

"Wooing me?" I snorted. It was a little late for that—though the cat poo coffee had been a rousing start.

"Yes." Edward smirked, disentangling himself from my arms and legs. "And if you think I just want you for your incredibly sexy body, well . . . maybe we have to take things a little more slowly." He crossed his arms, looking very serious. "So much for my plan . . ."

"What plan?" My voice sounded a bit desperate as I extended my hand. He stepped quickly out of my reach and then it was my turn to pout.

"I don't know if I should tell you now. You might get the wrong idea about my intentions."

"Are your intentions honorable?"

"Some of them are. Some of them, not so much. But I suppose _those_ don't matter anymore." He said it offhandedly, but his eyes crinkled at the sides as he tried to rein in his smile.

I slid off the table, advancing toward him. If he wanted games, I could play along with the best of them.

"Oh, really?" I undid the top button of my shirt with a casual motion, as if I were loosening my collar. Edward's eyes flicked to my chest. Men were so easy. I took another step, closing the distance between us. "That's too bad. I've always preferred dishonorable intentions."

"Hmm . . . interesting, Chef Swan. What valuable information."

Another button undone, Edward's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"I don't know that it has much value if you're not planning on utilizing it," I said, leaning forward. His warm exhalation tickled the sensitive skin of my lips. "I may have had plans myself."

Edward's voice grew huskier. "Honorable or dishonorable?"

"For tonight? Very dishonorable." I reached up and dragged my hands through his hair, mussing it up as I leaned forward to kiss the scruff on his face. He smelled like kitchen and Edward . . . my plans would definitely involve a shower first.

"I like the sound of that."

"Unfortunately, these particular plans would be best carried out in a more . . . private location. Like my apartment."

"So you're saying you want me to come home with you tonight?"

"Ten points to Gryffindor!" I just couldn't resist, even if my lameness totally interrupted the sexy foreplay we had going on.

Edward gave me a devilish look, his eyebrows lifting as he smirked. "Oh, Bella, Bella, Bella . . . you've got me all wrong."

"I have?"

"I'm definitely a Slytherin." I almost protested because the man was a Gryffindor through and through, but he grabbed and kissed me with such intensity, my mind went blank.

How devious. He might have been a Slytherin after all.

^_^ AAT ^_^

PV was waiting patiently by the door when Edward and I arrived back to my place after dropping by his to pick up some clothes. And make out on his sofa. Just a little.

She looked up at us expectantly and let out a plaintive meow.

"What's wrong?" Edward bent down to pet her, and she rubbed against his hand.

I rolled my eyes. "Hungry, as always."

"Well, we'll have to feed you, won't we?" She'd started to purr, my own little cat motorboat.

I had to look away to hide my goofy smile—not only was Edward talking to PV, which proved I wasn't the only crazy person that talked to cats, but he'd said _we_. As if we were both somehow responsible for her sustenance. Our daughter.

_How romantic,_ Dad voice said sarcastically.

Mom-voice stayed decidedly silent. She must be agreeing with him by default. Bitch.

Edward said my name again, and I looked down; he'd obviously said something I missed.

"Sorry, what?"

He smiled. "I asked where the cat food is."

"Oh," I muttered, kicking off my shoes and padding toward the kitchen. "It's in those cupboards."

Edward made himself useful, retrieving a can, his eyes widening as he spied the million cans he'd sent.

"Wow. Do you have room for anything else?"

"I don't, thanks to you."

"This is a lot of cat food." He shook his head, straightening. I passed him a fork and leaned against the counter.

"Yeah. Try lugging it twelve blocks in the summer heat and then get back to me."

Meanwhile, Edward had opened the can and started forking it into PV's dish on the counter. She took great interest in the proceedings, weaving between our ankles and emitting the most pitiful sequence of cries I'd ever heard. Drama queen.

"This is god-awful." Edward wrinkled his nose, then looked down at the cat as he scraped the last of the can. "You like this stuff?"

PV meowed piteously.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Once she was eating, I realized Edward and I hadn't either, unless you counted the apples he'd stolen from me.

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

"I wouldn't mind a bite."

I sighed, running my fingers through my hair. "I don't have much in the house at the moment, and I doubt either of us feel like cooking. Pizza?"

"Sounds good."

I placed the order and turned around. Edward watched me with a funny expression.

My hand darted quickly to my face, wondering if there was perhaps an unknown smear of sauce on my forehead. But then Edward kissed me again, so clearly I'd misread his _I want to make out _face.

"How long 'til the pizza gets here?"

"Um . . ." I said, distracted by his mouth, which was travelling down my neck towards the top of my chest.

"Thirty minutes."

"Hmm." He sounded disappointed. "That's not too long."

"Long enough for a shower," I suggested. Edward looked up and smiled.

"I like the way you think, Chef."

"You can stop calling me Chef, by the way," I said, dragging him toward the bedroom. "We're not working anymore."

"You don't like it?"

I thought for a second. "I kinda do, actually."

One thing that could be said for my relatively small apartment—the bathroom was awesome. It was one of the main reasons I'd picked the place years ago. The shower was definitely roomy enough for two people, or even three if you were into that kinda stuff. Not that I'd be willing to share Edward ever. Unless he had a really hot English footballer friend.

We disrobed quickly while I adjusted the water and hopped in. Edward was quick behind, pressing up against me under the spray. I reached for the shampoo, but he nipped my neck playfully, drawing me away.

"God, you're hot," he murmured.

I turned and caught his lips in a warm, wet kiss. And when his dick stirred between us, I had a feeling we weren't going to be doing much washing.

"You're not so bad yourself."

He groaned as I encircled his cock with my hand, giving an experimental tug.

"Maybe we should wash first?" I asked.

Edward's lips parted slightly as I continued to stroke him. Since he hadn't answered me, I figured maybe getting dirty before washing was the better idea.

The awkward angle didn't allow for a steady rhythm, but his eyes closed and his head lolled back, and for a second I worried he'd brain himself on the shower wall. His cock was hard and thick in my hand, the foreskin strangely sexy as it covered the head and then retracted with each pass. Edward murmured encouragement, the water streaming down his face and torso, creating rivulets I wanted to lick. Why had we never showered together before?

Wanting to surprise him, I dropped to my knees, licking the tip of his erection experimentally. Edward straightened immediately, his eyes popping open while he watched me circle it again with my tongue before drawing just the tip into my mouth. I got a mouthful of water along with cock and urged Edward a few inches out of the spray.

"Fuck, Bella. You don't have to do that."

"Duh," I said, releasing him for a second before continuing my assault.

Unlike a lot of women, I enjoyed giving blowjobs—to the right person, at least. Edward sighed and made the sexiest bity-lip face as I licked and stroked and worked his shaft, twisting my wrist as I took him deeper into my mouth. And when I cupped his balls with one hand and massaged them gently, he emitted a deep, guttural moan. I really, really wanted him to fuck me. But we had all night, and right now I wanted to make him feel good. Plus, shower sex might result in one or the other of us on the floor with a concussion, and that certainly wouldn't bode well for further sexy times.

One of Edward's hands drifted to my head, caressing gently, and I increased the pressure with my tongue and lips, concentrating on the head and sensitive underside. One of the advantages to having a gay best friend was definitely the free insider dick-sucking information. And having a gay best friend who had absolutely no public filter—priceless.

Edward's hips moved slightly as his dark, hungry eyes focused on the scene below. I gave it the old college try, but no way could I get him in the entire way. His cock was longer than average, but it was the girth that really impeded my deep-throating ability. And the foreskin was still a bit of a mystery. Still, I pulled out all the stops, feeling for the sensitive area behind his balls.

"Bella," he whispered, his husky voice drawing me out of my reverie. It seemed like kind of a warning, so I drew back and stroked more rapidly, licking and sucking gently as Edward grunted. For the piece de resistance, I took him back in as far as I could, trying not to gag as he started to pulse, both of his hands holding my head as he cursed and rode out the end of his orgasm.

He drew a ragged breath and reached for me, drawing me up into his arms and reaching between my legs.

"You liked that," he whispered, lightly stroking. He could definitely feel how wet I was—and not from the shower.

"Yeah. It was hot."

"You're bloody brilliant." He'd entered post-orgasmic inarticulate guy mode.

"I know."

He kissed me and continued to tease my clit, but I gently drew his hand away and reached for the shampoo.

"But—" he started to protest.

"Later, I promise. But we don't wanna keep the pizza guy waiting . . ."

Edward nodded, as if remembering for the first time. "Damn."

An hour later, full of pizza and incredibly sleepy, we settled onto the couch to watch a movie. Edward stretched out, resting his head in my lap in his not-so-subtle attempt to get me to massage his scalp. He was exhausted, as his non-stop yawning indicated.

"I have to go early in the morning," he said without enthusiasm.

"Oh, really? Why?" I rubbed his temples, and he smiled a little, closing his eyes. Funny how suddenly we'd fallen into such easy intimacy. It should have scared me . . . in some ways it did. But I pushed those thoughts out of my mind and concentrated on running my fingers through his hair.

"My father's leaving tomorrow. He wants to meet for breakfast before his flight."

"I didn't even know he was still in town."

"Mmm hmm."

"So how are things, you know, between you guys?"

In the whirlwind of the last couple of days, I'd completely forgotten about his dinner.

"Not great. But Carlisle likes to keep up appearances, you know. Be the dutiful father."

"God, parents really suck."

"Not all of them do. My mother's pretty fantastic. You'll get along well, I think." He opened his eyes and smiled, reaching up to touch my face. Did Edward really imagine me meeting his mother? That was the only way to explain his use of the future tense. A lump of fear and happiness and anxiety formed in my throat. Until this moment, a part of me thought this would just be a casual fling, no matter how much I didn't want it to be. But these kinds of statements gave me reason to hope . . . reason to think about a future with hm. But how could we ever make it work?

"Bella? Are you okay?"'

"Yeah," I said, trying to disguise the emotion in my voice. "Just tired."

"I hope you're not_ too_ tired." His smile transformed into a smirk.

"I guess I'm not toooo tired."

"Good, because this movie is bloody awful."

We fell into bed, and Edward pressed me down into the sheets, his body lithe and hard against me. The man was clearly some kind of sex robot. Luckily I had a whole drawer full of condoms, including some ridiculously flavored varieties, courtesy of you-know-who.

Edward gave me a slightly alarmed look, and I laughed.

"Blame Emmett," I tried to explain. Edward's brows traveled further up his forehead. I smoothed them down with my thumb. "Emmett likes to provide me with plenty of protection."

"Oh. Well," he said, rifling through the drawer. "If it's all the same to you I think I'll stick with the regular variety."

"Please do." Nothing like a banana-scented dick to take the romance out of sex.

It didn't take long for me to get worked up since my excitement from the shower had never really waned. His tongue slid hotly between my thighs, drawing me into a near frenzy of licks and sucks and kisses. When he finally thrust inside, I sighed and arched my back, wanting him further, deeper, wanting him all. It was slow, much slower than the previous two times, Edward kissing me gently as he rolled his hips against mine. My orgasm crept up with a burst of blissful heat, and our tongues tangled together as Edward followed seconds later.

His head dropped to my chest as our breathing evened out, and I thought about the day . . . how strange it had been. How wonderful.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thoughts? I'd love to hear them! **

**And yes, you may have heard that I'm writing an Edward/Draco slash crossover fic. I'm not crazy… I don't think. It's called These Violent Delights and the link is on my profile. Go ahead… I dare you! **


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: SM owns it all. **

**Thanks to Mac214 for her awesome beta help and to Ms. Junkowski, BellaFlan, and DiamondHeart78 for prereading! **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 19: An Interesting Turn of Events<strong>

Monday morning, I dragged myself out of bed missing Edward. _It hasn't even been twenty-four hours_, I chided myself in the mirror as I flossed. But with the shower behind me and the still-rumpled sheets on the bed visible through the door, I couldn't stop myself from . . . reminiscing.

An hour later, I sat in my office with next week's produce order.

Emmett knocked and popped his head in.

"What's up?" I asked.

He strode toward my desk with a rolled up something in his hand.

"Read it and weep," Emmett said, slapping a magazine down on my desk. "Looks like your boy's playing for my team after all. Oh, and I'm famous."

I glanced at the headline and grimaced.

_**Edward Cullen's Gay Romp Across Manhattan—A Star Magazine Exclusive! **_

Under the caption was a picture of an irritated-looking Edward staring at two men on the dance floor of a club—even in the grainy photo I could distinguish them as Emmett and Jake.

_Shit._

"Pictorial evidence, bee bee," Em said, trying to hide his smirk behind his hand. "And doesn't Jake's ass look fine?"

"I can't see it with your hands in the way," I grumbled. "And anyway, that's not the point! It was a private party. Which one of your idiot friends sold this photo to this trashy magazine?"

Emmett's grin morphed into a pout.

"Why do you assume it was one of _my_ friends? It was probably one of Jake's."

"Oh, I am so gonna tell him you said that."

"Please do," Emmett replied, his expression growing devious. "I'm in need of a good spanking."

Emmett left to get coffee, leaving me to stare morosely at the picture in front of me. Finally, my curiosity got the better of me, and I flipped it open to the article. Instant regret.

_America's Gayest Chef was spotted out at a club last weekend in New York, and Star has the photos to prove it! The sexy man's man shot icy daggers at two guys getting hot n' heavy on the dance floor. Could it be Chef Cullen has an appetite for jealousy?_

I groaned, both at the bad writing and its implications. This was my fault. Edward came to Emmett and Jake's engagement party to find me, after all. And the worst part was, out of context, Edward truly looked the part of the jilted lover. Would he be pissed or blow it off like he usually did?

Glancing at my phone, I realized Edward was probably in the middle of filming. I hadn't seen him since early Sunday morning before he'd left for breakfast with his father, but we'd made plans to meet up tonight. It probably wasn't worth worrying him about it, especially since we'd expected something like this to happen. We just hadn't expected a photograph.

^_^ AAT ^_^

"Are you sure it doesn't bother you? Won't it hurt your image?" I glanced over at Edward, willing him to give an honest answer.

Edward took my hand and drew me closer to snuggle against him. The two of us were lounging on his couch after dinner, and I'd finally gotten the courage to broach the subject. I needn't have worried; he already knew about the article, probably thanks to his agent. "It'll blow over in a week or so. Believe me, worse things have happened than me being accused of shagging blokes."

I sighed. "You're right. It's so stupid, anyway; it's not like it's an insult."

"No," Edward agreed. "It's not."

"What did Jane say?"

His eyes clouded over for a second before he replied. "She's a little pissed off, but she'll get over it."

"Did you . . . um . . . tell her . . . " I wanted to ask him if he'd told her about our romance, relationship, whatever the hell this was, but I stopped myself. For some reason the idea of labeling things made my stomach twist uncomfortably; it was too soon, right? Why would he have told his publicist about something so new? And once this was labeled, it would start being real—really real—with the potential for disaster should things go wrong. Knowing my history with men, _that _was only a matter of time.

But another part of me (the part that wasn't certifiably insane and full of self-doubt) really, really wanted to hear Edward say those words. The stupid ones like exclusivity, girlfriend, partner, love-of-my life . . . Just kidding about the last one. _Right._

"What?" Edward cocked his head to the side, and my face grew hot.

"Uh. Iwonderedifyoutoldheraboutme?" The words rushed out in a jumble, uttered mainly to the bit of lint on my pant leg.

"Sorry, I didn't quite catch that." He tickled my side, making me squeal and bat his hand away.

"If you told her about me." I said, once I'd escaped to a safe distance.

Edward smirked, his green eyes mischievous in the soft light of the room. "Oh, I heard you the first time."

"You ass."

"I did tell her, as a matter of fact," he replied casually. "Told my father as well."

A deluge of emotions washed over me, threatening to stop my heart . . . but giddiness definitely predominated. To keep from grinning too widely, I bit down on the insides of my cheeks. Ouch.

"Oh, really? What did you say?" I tried to strike the same nonchalant tone, but even I could hear the eagerness in my voice. God, I was such a freaking _girl_.

"I told them both I'd met someone very special. Well," Edward said, smiling, "met again."

"And what did they say?"

His looked away quickly, and I almost panicked, worrying it hadn't been good.

"Jane wanted to use our relationship as damage control. I told her no."

I didn't know how to reply to the comment, so I waited for Edward to go on, trying to keep from fidgeting too obviously. My nerves made my palms sweat and my heart race.

"It's just . . . I don't want to_ use_ this, you know? It's nobody's damn business. For once I have something I want to protect outside of this whole ridiculous circus. _I'm_ calling the shots, and _I _get to decide who gets a glimpse into my personal life." The exasperation in his voice wasn't leveled at me, but it filled the room with palpable tension. His whole body seemed coiled and ready to lash out. It would have been hot if I didn't feel so bad about the whole thing.

Reaching out to touch his shoulder, I tried to think of a solution. "But if it's a matter of hurting your career, I don't mind. I mean, it would be invasive, sure, but I'm an adult. I can handle the pressure if it means getting everyone off your back."

Edward moved to face me, taking my other hand between his. "I know you can. I don't doubt that at all. But I just want this . . . between us, with no one breathing down my neck or asking me bloody questions about what it's like to snog you. Or worse. And you might be able to handle it, but you won't like it. Trust me, those people have no decency."

"I'd do it for you."

"Thank you. I appreciate that," he said with a smile, leaning forward to kiss the side of my mouth. "But this is a matter of standing up for myself. You made me see I could change things for the better."

"I did?"

"Yeah." He kissed my knuckles softly. "And I want to start right with you. Everyone who doesn't like it can sod off."

I could see his point; he'd lived so many years letting other people control his public image, and he was finally taking a stand. My brain started to go a bit off track when Edward flattened my palm and placed more small, warm kisses on the sensitive skin there. Damn him, he was totally distracting me.

Not wanting to end the conversation before we'd completed it, I drew my hand away, kissing him on the cheek to let him know the motion hadn't been meant as a rejection.

"I understand, I think."

Edward smiled a little more easily, and some of the tension left his shoulders.

"But it . . . it makes me happy you told Jane. And your dad."

"It does?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

Edward's brow furrowed a bit, indicating something else was on his mind.

"I feel . . . like we've been only talking about me, what this means for my life," he began, his eyes focusing somewhere off to the side and then back to mine. "I haven't asked you what you want - from this." He gestured between us. "From me."

My heart thrummed quicker, and I bit my lip . . . shit. This was The Relationship Talk, wasn't it? Crap, why had I instigated it?

"What do you mean?" As soon as the question left my lips, I could have kicked myself for being such a coward.

He ran a hand through his hair. "I mean . . . I know it's soon. But I feel this going somewhere. I don't know where, and I need to know if you're on the same page because I can't stop thinking about you. The thought of this just being . . . a fling is just . . . I don't want to see you with anyone else."

It was even better than I'd hoped. "Are you saying you want us to be exclusive?"

Edward nodded.

I almost made a joke about how the mighty man-whore had fallen, but the vulnerability in his eyes stopped me. He'd put himself out there, and now it was my turn.

Leaning forward, I ran my fingers through the errant hair that had flopped onto his forehead. "I want that too," I admitted. "But it's gonna be crazy . . . your schedule, mine. We'll have to make time for this to work."

"I'm willing if you're willing."

"I'm definitely willing."

"When we do come out publicly as a couple, it'll be on our terms," he said.

That sounded good to me. I nodded, still feeling a little shy. A couple.

Edward's expression brightened considerably, and before I knew it I found myself straddling him, our mouths crashing together in an awkward, messy kiss. Hands clutched at my back, drawing me closer as I angled my head for better access. Making out on the sofa had never been so good—add a little dry hump—instantaneous heaven. But there's only so much dry humping one can do in jeans without chafing, and so we made quick work of those.

"Condom?" he asked, nearly panting.

"Shit."

We broke apart as Edward left to fetch one, and I made a mental note to talk about STD testing and the like—and not just for him. Since I hadn't been tested since Felix, and he'd been screwing the secretary from hell . . . Yeah. Testing was probably a good idea.

Edward reappeared, ripping the package with his teeth as he made his way toward the couch, his cock bobbing with each stride. I had to stifle a giggle.

When I finally sank down onto Edward, both of us moaned. His tongue teased one of my nipples as I rode him slowly, wanting to prolong the moment. My boyfriend. Edward Cullen. Who the fuck could have guessed it?

His hands guided my hips as he rocked up to meet my movements, and when I looked into his eyes, I didn't see the boy I knew so long ago. That person didn't exist anymore, and that was okay.

Because the man was so much better.

^_^ AAT ^_^

July morphed into August in a blur of weddings, functions, and Edward.

Once Kate settled into life at La Vie I didn't need to oversee everything, which did a good deal to free up my time, especially early in the week. I looked forward to the oncoming fall when business settled down and became much more manageable. While the spring and summer provided us with most of our capital, by the beginning of August I was always fried.

Edward and I weren't exactly hiding our relationship—in fact we went on several public dates but always managed to evade the paps, mostly because of the exclusive restaurants and bars we frequented. And so we settled into a somewhat random routine of late night visits and lazy Sunday afternoons, sometimes punctuated with a dose of Emmett, Jake, and Rose.

It was kinda weird how well Emmett and Edward got along after Emmett's initial "size-up." The two of them fought jokingly over which one of them made a better boyfriend for me, finally conceding that Edward won by virtue of being straight. Apparently my little white lie was destined to be fodder for humiliation for the foreseeable future. Thankfully, Edward didn't often bring up my drunken email stunt; it had, after all, brought us together.

The tabloid rumors about Edward died down, and we didn't see any untoward articles on him for almost a month, but at the same time, the ratings started slipping. Though Edward never directly told me, I overheard him talking to Jane one night—arguing, was more like it. I couldn't hear the details of their conversation, but I gathered she wasn't happy. And that meant the producers weren't happy, either.

I hated to think our strategy of laying low was affecting Edward's career, but he was also incredibly stubborn. In any case, _The Food Network_ launched an aggressive advertising campaign in early August, plastering Edward's face all over the city—I even saw a poster in the Nordstrom ladies'. I couldn't turn on the television without seeing a commercial for _America's Hottest Chef_.

Week after week, America voted off contestants. Edward got more irritable with each episode, until finally there were only three contenders left—Garrett, Siobhan, and Zafrina.

I sat down to watch the show and prepared to spend the rest of the evening voting off Zafrina. Both Edward and I hoped Garrett would win—or even Siobhan. She and Edward had apparently been getting along well, and though she was by no means a great chef, her skill outweighed Zafrina's by leaps and bounds. She'd even stopped talking about lemurs constantly. Edward figured he could deal with either her or Garrett in his kitchen for six months. Zafrina, not so much.

Just as I'd snuggled up with my bowl of popcorn, the phone rang.

It was Edward, or as I liked to call him recently, Mr. Grumpy Pants.

"Hey, you," I answered, flipping on the TV.

"Hey, yourself."

"Where are you—still at the studio?"

Edward sighed. He'd been down there most days this week. While he'd sent me flowers and silly presents to make me smile, it just wasn't the same. "Yeah, unfortunately. I'd rather be with you."

"Me too."

"Are you going to watch?"

"Yep. I got my popcorn and my cell phone ready to speed dial. That biatch is going down tonight!"

Edward chuckled on the end of the line. "A single-handed coup?"

"Nah, I'm making Rose and Emmett vote tonight too. Oh, and my parents." I'd finally told my mom and dad about Edward, making my mother swear under penalty of death not to gossip about us to all her friends. She was now Edward Cullen's Number One Fangirl, and I figured she'd already started planning our wedding. My father expressed a little more reticence about me dating a celebrity, but I knew he just wanted to protect me. He'd even sent me a new can of pepper spray.

I was slowly coming around to the idea of them getting back together, but I still worried my mom would break my dad's heart again. But that's the risk you take when you fall in love.

The sound of Edward's voice brought me out of my distracted thoughts.

"Thanks. Ah, anyway . . . How was your day?"

Even thinking about the twelve-hour shift I'd just finished made me exhausted. I yawned.

"Tiring. Alec dropped a Caesar salad on the bride's lap."

"When are you going to fire that tosser? My blind Aunt Mary would be a better server."

"Already done." Though I felt a bit bad about it, Alec had reached the end of his luck at La Vie. "And you never told me you had a blind Aunt Mary."

"It's a figure of speech."

"No, it's not. You're just weird."

"Takes one to know one."

I snorted and petted PV, who'd just leapt up on the couch and presented her belly for a rub. "And you're also changing the subject."

"I know. It's just . . . walls have ears."

"Oh, right." The commotion in the background rose to a dull roar.

"I really have to get back to work," he admitted. "I just wanted to hear your voice."

"I miss you." We hadn't seen each other for several days. Edward had done a photo-shoot and interview with the cast the day before for the front cover of _Entertainment Weekly_, so he hadn't been able to stop by. And with the way the rest of our weeks seemed to be shaping up, I wouldn't see him for a few more days. Which sucked.

"I miss you too."

"Well, I'm done at eight on Wednesday."

"I'll pick you up."

"You don't have to do that. I'll take a cab."

"I'd really rather pick you up."

I rolled my eyes, grinning despite myself.

"You're so stubborn."

"No. I'm just practical."

"Practical? Driving your forty-thousand dollar car to pick me up at work when I could just as easily take a cab is practical?"

"It is when it means I get to see you sooner." His voice was so low I could barely make it out. My heartbeat quickened when I realized what he'd said.

"Okay. Pick me up, then."

"I will."

"Bye."

"Bye."

I hesitated for a second before hanging up, other, more important words dancing on the tip of my tongue.

But I lost my nerve.

On Wednesday, Edward arrived earlier than promised. He parked in the back alley and poked his head into the kitchen door.

"Hi," he said, a smile turning up his lips.

"Hey!" I dropped the frosting bag I'd been using and wiped my hands on my apron.

Edward strode inside and hugged me tightly, and I raised my head for a hello kiss that left me boneless.

Irina rolled her eyes. "Would you two get out of here? I'm sure the future Mr. and Mrs. Smith-Klein won't appreciate my vomit in their cake batter."

"Eet is a new trend," Laurent quipped.

"Not one we want to be famous for," I assured him, untying my apron.

Edward had already entered the kitchen and was sniffing and poking at the frosting bowl.

"Get," I said, slapping him on the shoulder. "I'll be ready in a few." Luckily, I'd brought a change of clothes.

^_^ AAT ^_^

The nondescript door to the bar looked almost as if led to a tenement, but inside the space was lush, decorated in deep reds and browns and filled with beautiful people.

We sat at the mahogany bar and had a couple of drinks and some food, but Edward's initially playful mood had become tense. I attributed it to the fact that America had voted Garrett off last week's show (though I wasn't technically supposed to know yet), and silently thanked God the whole thing would be done in just another couple of episodes.

"Hey," I said, reaching out to touch his face. He leaned into the caress, his mouth opening and planting a light kiss on my palm.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It's just . . ."

"The stress. I know."

"I'll be better," he muttered. "You look beautiful tonight, by the way." He ran his hand up my bare leg, stopping and pulling at the edge of my skirt.

"Thanks." My gaze caught his, and he raised his eyebrows suggestively, sliding his hand just barely under the hem.

"You're such a perv."

"That's why you . . . like me," Edward replied with a grin.

"Indeed. One of the reasons." My heart thrummed stupidly in my chest.

The evening seemed to lighten up after that, but when we got back to Edward's, he went straight for the wet bar and poured himself another tumbler of Scotch. I hadn't seen Edward drunk since the night of the Black Eyed Peas lyrics, but he seemed determined to get smashed.

"Help yourself," he said, gesturing towards the liquor. I shook my head.

"Are you okay?" I asked, running my hand up his arm to massage his shoulder. The ice tinkled quietly in the glass as he shook it.

"Fine," he replied. From the tone of his voice, I could tell he wasn't eager to talk. Since it was late, and I had an early morning, I headed to bed while Edward remained brooding in the living room.

When I finally felt the mattress dip beneath his weight, it was well after three. Why was he acting so strange? Neither of us spoke, although we were both awake. He tossed and turned until I prepared to bludgeon him with my pillow, but finally his arms sought me out. I let him draw me close with a satisfied sigh.

"I'm sorry," he whispered against my hair.

"It's okay. What's—" He cut off my question with a hot, searching kiss. Even in my groggy state I responded, feeling myself grow wet as he rubbed me lightly through my pajama bottoms.

"Can I have you?"

"Yes," I whispered as his hands and lips moved wantonly against me. "Fuck, yes."

The irritation I'd felt earlier vanished as his tongue, fingers, and cock made me forget my own name.

I didn't remember falling asleep after making love, but when the alarm finally rang at seven, I gestured wildly and almost knocked it off its perch. The stupid thing blared "Don't Worry, Be Happy," like that was an acceptable song for a mid-week wakeup.

Stupid piece of crap.

I grumbled and reached my arms overhead in a vigorous stretch but noticed Edward wasn't there.

"Edward?" I called out, sliding out of the bed and rummaging for my slippers. He didn't answer, but the bathroom mirror looked fogged. Maybe he'd just gotten out of the shower.

I padded out of the bedroom and called his name again, but no one answered. Figuring he might have gone down to the gym for a quick workout, I poured myself a cup of coffee and grabbed a croissant from the breadbox.

Twenty minutes later, Edward still hadn't returned, and I needed to get ready for work. Sighing, I pushed the newspaper aside and stood.

Just then, I noticed a note on the counter I'd previously overlooked.

_Bella,_

_I had a few things to take care of. Please have some coffee and breakfast, and I'll see you later. I miss you already._

_Edward. _

An hour later, I left the building and headed to the train, fiddling with my iPod. No matter how much music I bought from iTunes, I could never find an acceptable "Going to Work" song. Emmett always made fun of me for flipping through all of the music I owned to get to something better.

Finally, I settled on Lauren Hill, swaying my hips a little as I hustled down the stairs—I could hear the screech of the train brakes as it approached.

"Shit," I cursed as I fished for my wallet. My Metro card had expired. I went over to the kiosk to swipe my credit card, but by that time, the train had already left. While I waited for the next, I decided to buy another cup of coffee. It was sure to be shitty, but with the night I'd had I needed the caffeine.

"Cream and sugar?" the vendor asked me.

"Just cream, thanks."

I perused the magazines as the vendor filled my cup; just then, something caught my attention. A shock of red hair and a telltale smirk made me grab for the magazine.

But I couldn't understand what I saw.

_**Edward Cullen: America's Hottest Chef—Bachelor No More?**_

The cover showed Edward in his chef whites smirking at the camera. And right next to him, with straightened red hair and the largest blue eyes I'd never seen (since they'd been apparently hiding behind coke-bottle glasses) . . . was Siobhan.

The lemur woman.

But damn, I never knew she had tits like that!

Hands shaking, I flipped to the article.

_Amidst swirling rumors of a secret gay lifestyle, Edward Cullen has finally decided to lay the gossip to rest._

"_I'm not gay. And yes, I am seeing someone," said America's Hottest Chef. The 'someone' in question is Siobhan Callahan, a contestant on Cullen's culinary program. Apparently the two started getting cozy once the vote-offs began . . . _

What the fuck?


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: SM owns it all and I own nothing. Really, come check out my apartment. **

**A/N: Thanks to the awesome Mac214 for betaing and to my darling BellaFlan, Ms. Junkowski and DiamondHeart78 for pre-reading. **

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 20: The Show Must Go On<strong>

"_I'm not gay. And yes, I am seeing someone," said America's Hottest Chef. The 'someone' in question is Siobhan Callahan, a contestant on Cullen's culinary program. Apparently the two started getting cozy once the vote-offs began . . . _

What the fuck?

"Miss? Your coffee. Miss?"

I tore myself from the article and met the kiosk vendor's irritated gaze.

"Yes. Uh. This too."

I thrust the magazine at him along with a twenty and took my coffee, though I couldn't imagine drinking anything considering my sudden, strong urge to vomit.

Another train roared in, and I tucked the offending magazine under my arm, dumping the coffee in the trash before I got on. Since it was rush hour, I found myself standing sandwiched between businessmen, poked and prodded by briefcases as we lurched from the station, which did nothing to alleviate my nausea. Fucking _Entertainment Weekly_? I expected shit like this from _Star_, but no magazine with a modicum of respectability should run such a crap story.

It had to be crap.

The adrenaline rush that hit me when I'd found the magazine had begun to wear off, and my entire body trembled. Edward wouldn't do this to me—he would never have gone along with something like this. Would he?

Two stops later, I fought my way off the train and made my way up the stairs into the humid August air. I looked at the cover of the magazine again, and my nausea worsened. He had his hand on her waist.

On her waist.

My eyes squinted, attempting to discern whether it was lying flat or cupping, but I couldn't tell with the damn print in the way. Would I get in trouble for lighting a magazine on fire in the middle of Manhattan?

Drifting toward a nearby bench, I sagged down and flipped back to the page I'd been reading.

_Apparently the two started getting cozy once the vote-offs began in July. __Clearly things have developed quickly between the two. The show's producer, Ken Allen, has confirmed the existence of an off-camera romance and commends the couple for maintaining such a professional attitude on set. _

I skimmed some bullshit quotes from the lying producer—no fucking way Edward would ever touch lemur woman! It just wasn't possible.

_Cullen's demeanor around his intended is relaxed and easy—something you'd never guess from their sometime tense interactions during the show._

"_We've gotten to the point where we can separate work from our personal lives," says Callahan. "And now that Edward isn't in control of who wins, it makes it a lot easier." _

_So was it romance at first sight?_

"_I had a bit of a crush on him from the first, yes," she admits. Cullen is a little more reticent. _

"_It wasn't easy at the beginning," he told us. "But yeah, I can imagine marriage in the future." _

Marriage in the future? That was going too far. I stood up and hurled the magazine in the trash, unable to read another word. Whoever this Marcus Starr was, he was a crap reporter. Anyone with two eyes would know Edward never gave Siobhan a look, even if they did truss her up like a Barbie for this stupid interview.

My thoughts came fast as I tried to make sense of it all, and my stride increased determinedly.

No matter how damning it looked, in my heart I knew Edward wouldn't cheat on me. The whole thing simply reeked of Jane's influence. But why wouldn't he have told me? It wasn't a tabloid this time—it was a real entertainment magazine. Not that they never made shit up, but still, the article had the appearance of truth to it.

I thought about my father reading it and cringed. What would everyone think? That was almost as unsettling as the story itself.

Edward had to have known and obviously felt guilty about it. It made perfect sense—he'd been so strange, so distant, and so stressed out about the show. The ratings weren't what they needed to be; otherwise, they'd never have pulled such a cheap trick.

Still, nothing excused him from not telling me about it—nothing. Had the past few months meant nothing to him? Didn't he know or care how hurt I'd be?

My gut clenched in pain, and I nearly collided with a gargantuan man on the sidewalk, who I recognized at the last second as Mario Batali. We'd exchanged friendly greetings several times in the past, but I wasn't in the mood to be pleasant.

"Sorry," I muttered. "The Food Network sucks."

He gave me a funny look and continued to his restaurant down the street. Great. Now I could never eat there again. And I loved his Cacio e Pepe. Never could get it right at home.

_Eff you. Eff you_, Edward Cullen.

Inside _La Vie_, everything was normal. Emmett was sipping a gross green health drink and chatting with the kitchen crew. I entered unnoticed and they all exploded with laughter.

"And then," Emmett continued, slapping his knee. "Then she told him Prince called and wanted his purple pants back! I died. I died!"

It sounded like a report of my firing of Alec the week before. I'd been waiting to use that Prince line for a really long time, but it didn't seem funny anymore. I cleared my throat.

Emmett turned and smiled. "We were just discussing your genius."

"It's too fucking early for this kind of mirth," I told them morosely. "I'll be upstairs."

"Oh," Irina tsked. "Someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed?"

"Your mom."

"Wait, you," Emmett called after me. "Bella—" The door swung behind me as I marched to my office. I half expected Emmett to follow me, but he knew me well enough to give me a wide berth. Until I heard from Edward first hand about what the heck was going on, this was one of those times.

I stared at my cell for about five minutes before I finally got the courage to dial. My dry throat burned as the phone rang.

"Bella? Hey, I—" He sounded nervous. It only confirmed my suspicion he'd known and lied about the article. Lies by omission were still big fat lies in my book.

I tried to keep the acid out of my tone. "So I found something really interesting at the news stand on my way to work."

He chuckled. "Shit. Yeah. I was going to mention it yesterday—" Laughter wasn't exactly the response I'd expected.

"Going to mention it?" My rage grew exponentially. I'd really wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt—somehow I'd hoped it'd all been just a big set-up courtesy of Satan's publicist. Now I had to face the truth, and the truth fucking sucked. "Yeah. You probably should've mentioned it."

"I didn't know how to bring it up. I was nervous. You can't believe how much pressure I've—"

I cut him off. "I _know_ how much pressure you've been under! I'm not blind. I thought we were supposed to work these things out together, Edward."

"We are! We are, but I didn't think you'd mind that much."

"You didn't think I'd mind? Are you kidding me?" I could hardly believe what he was saying. "Of course I fucking mind. This is _Entertainment Weekly_! Everyone reads it . . . my mom, my dad . . ." The tears welled up behind my eyes, and I blinked them away, trying to keep the tremor of emotion out of my voice. My dad had never been on board with me dating Edward, and now his worries would be confirmed.

"You're right. I should have run it by you first. It's just that Jane suggested . . ."

"Jane can burn in hell, for all I care." I wanted to add, _and so can you_, but I couldn't. I still loved him. Loved him. The thought made my eyes well with hot, unshed tears. "I can't believe you thought so little of me to not bring this up."

"Bella, I think you're overreacting just a bit."

"Overreacting? Marriage, Edward?"

"Was that too much? I probably should have run that by you."

"You're unbelievable," I scoffed, anger replacing the hurt. "I thought you'd changed."

"Bloody hell, I had to give them something! And I honestly don't understand why you're so upset. I mean, we always knew it was a possibility." He paused. "Maybe we don't have what I thought we did."

"Maybe we don't," I agreed, though it tore my heart right out of my chest.

"I can't believe you're agreeing with me! Bugger it! Listen, I'll come and see you; we can talk about this rationally, like adults."

If I saw him I'd be a goner. I couldn't risk it, not when I was so vulnerable. He'd lied to me, and now he was acting like it was no big deal that all of America—including my parents—thought he was fucking another woman. Edward Cullen wasn't the man I thought he was at all, and I'd paid the price again for being so stupid.

"No. That's not a good idea. I . . . I need some time to think. Goodbye, Edward."

"What do you mean, Bella?" I hated the way he added an "r" at the end of my name. Stupid Brit.

"I mean goodbye. Don't call me. Have fun with lemur woman. I'm sure you two will be very happy together in Madagascar or wherever the fuck." The last part came out in a mad rush, and I barely had the coordination to hang up the phone, my hands shook so badly.

Tears I'd been holding in while on the phone broke forth. I cried giant, heaving, snot-inducing sobs and didn't even notice when Emmett came in.

"Holy shit, who died? What's going on? Is Rose okay?" Emmett's tree-trunk arms enveloped me and drew me out of my chair.

"Ed-d-ward and I b-b-broke up-p. I th-think." I hiccupped, embarrassed by my tears but unable to stop.

"What are you talking about?" His voice was tinged with disbelief. "When? I just saw you in the kitchen ten minutes ago!"

"Right n-now."

My phone started vibrating on the desk, the loud buzz resonating through my cries. Emmett snatched it up. "It's him."

"I can't talk to him again."

"Hello? This is Emmett." He paused. "Yeah, I'm with Bella. She's crying."

I hit him. "Don't tell him that," I hissed. "Hang up the phone!"

"She doesn't want to talk to you. I'm sorry, I don't know what it is, but whatever you did . . . I'm probably going to have to kick your ass, which sucks 'cause it's a nice ass."

"Emmett!" I groaned, pinching his side. I grabbed the phone from him and turned it off, even though Edward was still speaking on the end of the line. Just hearing him in the distance had me so close to crumbling and doing anything to make things right again.

But I couldn't do that . . . I had to think things through. I had to . . . fuck, I couldn't think at all. I released Emmett, realizing I'd made him all wet and snotty, and slumped back into my chair.

"Sorry about your shirt."

"Oh, this old thing? Never mind that. Babycakes, you're scaring me." He ruffled my hair. "What the hell is this all about? The man sounded desperate to talk to you. Are you sure you shouldn't?"

"Yes, I'm sure." For the first time since I'd seen it, I wished I still had the magazine in my possession. At least then I wouldn't have to explain. It had all happened so quickly. Last night we were . . . and now . . . The stupid tears, which had stopped during the interruption of the phone call, began again. Emmett watched helplessly as I cried into my hands.

"Fuck. I need Rose," he muttered more to himself than to me.

"Go buy a copy of _Entertainment Weekly_," I said, once I'd gotten control of myself again.

My voice sounded hoarse from crying. I cleared my throat and looked up at him.

"Um . . . why? This doesn't exactly seem like the best—"

"No," I shook my head. "It will explain everything. I just . . . I can't right now. I think I have to go."

"Do you think that's a good idea? I mean, why don't you just sit here and wait for me to come back, and then we'll figure out what to do."

I nodded, not sure where I'd go anyway. While the only thing I wanted to do was curl up in my bed, something told me my apartment wasn't safe. Edward could go there . . . he could just walk right up and knock on my door and pretend he hadn't said things like _maybe we don't have what I thought we did_. Or say them again. I shuddered. No, home was a no-go.

"Okay," I agreed. "I'll stay here."

"I'll be right back."

"'Kay."

But as soon as he left, I panicked. Edward could come here as well! He could come here. I stood and started gathering my things frantically, dialing my phone with my other hand.

"Hello?" Rose answered groggily.

"Hi, um, Rose . . . are you up?"

"I am now."

"Shit, I'm sorry. Look, I know you just got back last night, but can I come over?" She'd been on another trip for _Bon Appetit_, this time to Dallas.

"Bella, you sound weird. Is something wrong?"

I hastily scribbled a note for Emmett and made for the door, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "Um . . . yeah, you could say that."

"Well, Jesus, girl, come over!"

The idea of getting back on the subway was repugnant, seeing as I associated it with the whole lemur woman debacle. Instead, I hopped a cab to Rose's new Upper East Side apartment. I watched the passing scenery with no interest, remembering a similar time only months ago when I'd taken a ride back from finding Felix with Heidi. This affair was fake, of course, but its exposure burned even deeper. Ironic, since Felix and I had been together a lot longer than Edward and me. I'd barely even thought of him since. Then again, I hadn't loved Felix.

My phone buzzed again, drawing my attention to the fact I'd left it on. Edward again. Shit.

I held it in my hands as his name flashed along with the cute picture I'd taken of him at my apartment with PV. The two of them sat on the couch looking at the camera with matching expressions of disdain for kitschy cell phone pics. They even had the same posture, both heads tilted to the right. _Shit, PV_. I'd have to go back there at some point today to feed her.

Eventually Edward's call went to voicemail, and I shut the phone off again, re-stowing it while I rode the rest of the way to Rose's.

She answered the door wearing a "Fearless Foodie" t-shirt and a pair of shorts, her hair rumpled from sleep.

"Hey," she said, "Emmett just called. He's on his way up here."

"I probably should have waited for him," I said, sighing.

"Yeah, he was pretty freaked out until he found your note. He thought you'd wandered off into the city to seek certain death. You really should leave your phone on."

"Uh . . . yeah."

Rose led me toward the kitchen and pulled out a stool. Her new place was huge and beautifully modern to match her huge, beautiful new salary. I sat down on the stool and took the mug of coffee she offered.

"So this is about Edward? Em said he was going to, and I quote, 'find that piece of limey trash and kick his pretty ass to the curb'."

I managed a wan smile, staring at the black, steaming liquid. My friends were crazy, but they were loyal to a fault.

"Yeah, it's about Edward. We . . . broke up." This time I managed the words without crying, probably since I'd expelled half my weight in tears over the past hour.

"He broke up with you, or you broke up with him?"

"I think I broke up with him. I can't really be sure." Already my conversation with Edward had begun to fade; I'd been so emotional, I hardly remembered what had been said to whom.

"Okay. Well, do you want to talk about it?"

"Just wait for _Entertainment Weekly_."

"That's what Em said."

"Yeah."

Rose prepared toast while we waited, frowning when I rejected her offer to make me some.

"You're not gonna get all depressed-orexic on me, are you?"

"Nah, I'll eat. Just . . . not now."

Emmett barged in to Rose's apartment a few minutes later, flailing his arms.

"Mami! You scared the shit out of me!" He hugged me, and I patted his bulky shoulder.

"Sorry. I'm sorry."

"I was about to call Jake to put an APB out on you."

"Oh, don't be such a drama queen, Em," Rose said, rolling her eyes.

He gave Rose a quick kiss on both cheeks and then passed her the magazine he held, his eyes guarded as he turned back to me.

"How are you?"

"Just peachy. Edward called again."

"Did you talk to him?"

"No."

While Em and I talked, Rose glanced over the article, here eyes widening and narrowing in a mesmerizing rhythm.

"This is so fucked up," she whispered.

"It's not true," I said. "The him dating the lemur chick thing, but yeah. He knew about it and didn't tell me."

"So you're saying they just made all this shit up?" Emmett nearly growled as he read over Rose's shoulder. "Isn't that illegal?"

"I have no idea. But Edward's publicist has pulled stunts like this before. So yeah, they made it up for ratings."

"What did Edward say?" Rose asked, closing the magazine and dropping it on the counter.

"He admitted he should have told me, but said he didn't think it was that big a deal . . . He couldn't see why I was so upset."

Emmett frowned. "What a bitch. I take back everything good I ever said about his ass."

Rose patted my shoulder, and I sniffed, not wanting to cry again. I couldn't bear to tell them what he'd said about our relationship.

"Really? That's crazy. How could he not know you'd be upset?" Rose's disbelief reinforced my own. I'd started to feel like maybe I'd been too harsh on Edward, so it comforted me to have my initial reaction confirmed.

"I don't know. But he made it seem like I was overreacting! He didn't even seem to think it was hypocritical, and we'd_ just_ talked about all of this! How he didn't want his publicist and manager running his life, that he wasn't gonna go along with that anymore . . . that he wanted us to decide when . . ."

It hit me like a shock of cold water, bringing back the nausea that had faded.

Could Edward have known this was going to happen all along? Is that why he didn't want to go public with our relationship? I'd believed he only wanted to protect me, but now . . . I gripped the counter and shook my head. And all those things he said about telling his father and Jane about me—was all that a lie as well?

"Bella? You're white as a sheet." Rose touched my arm.

"I just . . . I need a minute alone."

Rose nodded, and I stood and shuffled to the bathroom on unsteady legs. I almost didn't recognize my reflection in the mirror—the pale grey tinge to my skin was unsettling, and my wide eyes glistened with more unshed tears. I hated that I'd allowed myself to be affected like this, that I'd let myself fall for him _again_ after what had happened the first time. That I'd trusted him.

I had no one to blame but myself.

_Bella Swan, moron._ I should have it tattooed on my forehead.

After I splashed my face with cold water and took a few breaths, I let myself out of the bathroom. Rose and Emmett spoke in hushed tones in the living room, and they both smiled sadly as I approached.

"Guys! Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?" they replied, eyes wide and innocent.

"Like you're afraid I'm about to jump off the nearest high rise. I'll be okay. I always am."

Rose sat beside me. "Emmett and I think you should stay here for a couple of days, think things through."

"What? I can't, I have a cat."

"Emmett's going back to _La Vie_, then he'll go over to your apartment and get your stuff. And PV. Here," she said, leaning forward to grab a notebook and pen off the coffee table. "Write a list."

"You don't like cats," I reminded her.

Rose shrugged. "I like yours."

"I have to work."

Emmett shook his head. "You don't today."

I could tell from their expressions that neither of them would take no for an answer, and to be honest, I didn't want to be alone. The thought of facing my apartment, knowing Edward could show at any moment . . . I just couldn't. So, like a good girl, I wrote my list and fished out my keys.

Once Emmett was gone, Rose disappeared into the kitchen for a few minutes. She returned with a batch of Bloody Marys and a bottle of Grey Goose.

"It's only ten," I protested.

"Yeah? Well, it's five in Russia." She waved the vodka in front of my face. "I think. Let's watch 80s slasher films and get lit."

I tried to muster similar enthusiasm but found I could only manage a weak smile. But halfway through my second drink, I started feeling a little calmer. I had great friends, a successful career, my health . . . I would get through this.

Who said you needed a heart to live?

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><p><strong>AN: So you know that part in the romantic comedy where everything goes to shit? Yeah, this is that part. Please don't throw rotten tomatoes; fresh ones are okay. **


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: SM owns it all.**

**A/N: Thanks to the awesome Mac214 for betaing and to my darling BellaFlan, Ms. Junkowski and DiamondHeart78 for pre-reading.**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 21: The Importance of Being Earnest<strong>

Friday.

Saturday.

Sunday.

Monday.

Tuesday.

Wednesday.

Thursday.

One week. I let myself snivel and mope around Rose's apartment for one week, when I wasn't working, of course. PV didn't particularly care for the move, and she meowed her displeasure, casting a critical eye as she tiptoed around the new digs.

"It's only temporary," I told her. She didn't seem convinced and went to sulk in the bedroom. I continued staring out the window, arms wrapped around my knees as I slowly rocked like some catatonic patient in a mental ward. Rose put up with _that _particular behavior for about five minutes before she threw me in the shower, fed me, and dragged me to Bloomingdales.

"Breakups suck," she said. "But if you sit around like Robert De Niro in _Awakenings_, then_ he _wins. You don't want _him_ to win, do you, Bella?"

I shook my head. No, I most certainly did not.

"Well, let's go get you pretty, then. Revenge is a dish best served with Manolo Blahniks and a top that shows off your tits."

Besides Emmett, Rose, and my parents (who were none to pleased to read about Edward's lemur lady; I'd barely restrained my father from calling in a 'favor' to one of his army buddies), I decided to keep news of the breakup secret. While my staff had proven themselves trustworthy over the last few weeks, I didn't want them gossiping behind my back. Work had always been one place where I could lose myself—the busy prep and frenetic energy during events always helped me focus. But now every action seemed strangely empty. Sure, I still loved cooking and my business, but the something I'd never felt missing before _was_ suddenly gone.

When Jake and Emmett came over for dinner at Rose's, that something became even more pronounced. It wasn't much—just a look. Rose had been telling us a story about her trip to Dallas and said something about hot sauce, and the two of them glanced at each other, Jake blushing and Emmett smirking. Neither of them knew I noticed, nor would they likely have cared. It was a secret. I missed that.

So I worked, though I made a point not to stick around _La Vie_ more than necessary to lessen the chances of running into Edward. So far he hadn't come by, which I attributed more to his cowardice than any desire to keep my employees out of my personal life. I said the things a girl says to herself when she's trying to stick to her guns.

But every day my resolve wavered.

Phone messages: 48. _Deleted._

Emails received: 17. _Unread, deleted. _

Packages delivered to _La Vie:_ 9. _Probably priceless._

I sent them back unopened since I couldn't bear the thought of throwing them away. Knowing Edward, whatever was inside promised to be either strange or delicious. If I wasn't eating or gazing skeptically at it, someone should be.

It pained me to delete his messages and return his gifts. I imagined the look on his face when the boxes came back—would he be angry? Upset? Edward had a very cute pout, and he knew how to use it. And even when he used it on me, I'd always loved his irritated face—brow furrowed, lips slightly pursed.

But every time I found myself tempted to listen or to read, I remembered the callous way he'd treated me during our phone conversation. Didn't know why I'd be upset—ha! Perhaps my compulsion to completely cut him off was immature, but a part of me wanted to get back at him for his own disappearing act that summer long ago. Let _him_ feel the frustration of not being able to contact someone, the pain of knowing you weren't wanted. At least I hadn't disconnected my phone. I just chose not to answer it.

A week after the break-up, Irina cornered me in the kitchen. The boys were all out in the back alley taking a break, and obviously she'd seen it as her big moment.

"What's with all the packages?" she asked.

"Hmm?" Perhaps playing dumb would work.

"Another one this morning, and Emmett sent it back. What's going on with you and lover boy?"

Perhaps not. "We, uh, had a fight."

"Hmm." Her eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms, making her look suspiciously like Rose. "I saw the magazine, you know."

"Oh, really?" My casual tone belied my irritation. Everyone in America had seen the damn thing by now.

"Yeah. If I were you, I'd send him something that would really make him suffer." She rubbed her hands together evilly. "Poisonous mushrooms?"

"I don't want to _kill_ him," I said, rolling my eyes. Apparently the proverbial cat was out of the bag. Thinking of cats made me think of PV, which made me think of her poor state of fatherlessness. I frowned.

"Well . . . I'm sorry it didn't work out. He seemed really into you. But I don't blame you for being upset. I mean, she has such red hair! Can you imagine what their ki—"

"Irina, I don't really—" As angry with him as I was, the thought of Edward having his ginger babies with anyone but me was repellant.

"So," she continued, cutting me off despite my obvious discomfort. "Who do you think'll win?"

Last week America had voted for either lemur woman or big tits McGee. I hadn't watched and refused to even so much as look at a tabloid, so I didn't know the outcome. The final results would be revealed in just two days, and Edward planned to unveil his new restaurant on the same show. He'd been thrilled about it, despite everything else. My mouth went dry, remembering how he'd come to my place after a long day finishing up the final touches and literally swept me off my feet in his excitement. I'd been making a pot roast—his favorite comfort food.

"It's done!" he'd exclaimed before leaning down to kiss me.

"Can I see?" I'd been dying to check out the place, but Edward wouldn't let me near it.

"Nope." He leaned down and brushed his lips against mine again. "I want you to be surprised."

I'd given him a bit of a hard time after that. "I can't believe you're making me wait with the rest of America. That's very unfair."

He'd grinned that stupid grin. "I live to torture you."

That was just two weeks ago. I could still feel his rough stubble against my chin.

I touched my hand to my face and settled my gaze back on the counter.

"Bella?" Irina's voice betrayed her concern. Right. She'd asked me a question. The rest of the crew started coming back inside, the screen door slamming after Seth re-entered.

"I . . . I don't really know who'll win." Either choice disgusted me.

She left me alone after that, and I went back to filling ramekins, thinking about the Saturday show. It would all end in a couple of days. I had no idea whether the producers wanted to run a second season, but with the ratings boost from the stupid faux romance, I could imagine it. The rest of Edward's life would be filled with parties and money and people who only wanted him for his fame. They'd never see the vulnerability I'd seen, or the real talent. They'd only see what they wanted to see, and he'd be whatever they wanted him to be. Was he really okay with that?

No matter how he'd behaved in the past week, all the things he'd said to me couldn't have been lies. Could they? He wasn't _that_ good an actor. He didn't want to wind up like his father, all of the outward trappings of success with no real happiness. And my gut clenched when I remembered something he said just days before the shit hit the fan.

_Sometimes I feel you're the only one that understands. You're the only one I can trust. _

At the time, the words had simultaneously delighted and upset me—I'd taken them as a sign our relationship was growing stronger, but I hated he felt so alone. And now he really was. Maybe he'd let Jane mislead him into thinking there was no other way . . . maybe he was contractually obligated to go along with it and was too embarrassed to tell me. Perhaps I should give him a chance to explain.

Then his other devastating words came back to me in a rush. _Maybe we don't have what I thought we did._ He'd broken my trust, I reminded myself. Not the other way around. I had no reason to feel guilty over my behavior—he'd deserved it.

Fuck. All of the thinking hurt my head and threatened to crumble my formerly firm resolve. Fuck. I needed that resolve. Without it, I was completely vulnerable.

On Friday morning Rose and I got into a little kerfuffle as we rushed around getting ready for work, and I decided I'd probably overstayed my welcome. I vowed to come back later to pick up PV and take her back to our apartment so we could all move on with our lives. It was time.

"Are you sure?" Rose asked, though by the look on her face I knew she was eager to have her space back.

I nodded. "I appreciate everything you've done for me. You're the best fucking friend in the world."

She laughed and hugged me. "Hey, I seem to recall a certain friend buying me out and letting me take a dream job, and on top of that being happy for me when she could just as easily been resentful. Now that's a pretty good fucking friend. Letting someone stay at my apartment for a week pales in comparison."

"Shut up." Taking compliments had never been one of my strong suits. "You didn't have to let me stay here. I know I'm an annoying houseguest."

"Just when you drink the last of the coffee and leave the pot on."

My mouth twitched; Edward always complained about the same thing. Rose gave my arm a pat.

"You'll be okay, B. And any time you need to talk, Em and I are here for you."

"I know."

Work dragged. I couldn't stop thinking about being back in my empty apartment; it actually wasn't empty at all. Edward had left various items over the past couple months, including a spare toothbrush, and my first plan of attack would have to be gathering up all of that stuff to get back to him. Ugh, I hated that part. How quickly a cherished object—cherished because it belonged to a particular object—could become unbearable.

Well, it had to be done. I'd have to put on my big girl panties and fucking _do it_ instead of whining like a baby. I'd even begun to irritate myself.

So late that afternoon, I returned to Rose's with a renewed determination. PV wound her way around my ankles when I came in the door, looking up at me expectantly.

"Yep, we're going home."

Her tail flicked in approval.

"Let me just go get our stuff together."

"Bella?" A voice called from the other room, and Rose appeared a second later.

"Hey, I didn't know you were home."

She smirked. "You were talking to the cat, weren't you?"

"Maybe."

PV meowed. She didn't appreciate being spoken about like she wasn't in the room.

"So, you're going?"

"Yeah." I nodded, glancing around the room. I realized I actually wanted to be back in my own space.

"Can I talk to you a sec before you go?" Rose's demeanor had shifted—she regarded me cautiously, a look that had been become very familiar over the course of the past week. I wasn't sure I liked the tone of her question.

"Sure. Um, what's up?"

Rose moved toward the couch, and I followed her, taking a seat. She reached forward and picked up an envelope from the coffee table. "This came for you today. Hand delivered."

I eyed it warily.

"It's from Edward," she said, stating the obvious.

"How did he find me?" Even as I protested, my heart started pounding, the stupid traitor.

_Edward was here, yay!_ Mom voice cried. _He's not giving up. Read the letter, read the letter, read the letter!_

Dad voice was less enthusiastic. _Where's that pepper spray?_

"He said he got my address from _Bon Appetit_. He admitted it was a little shady and an abuse of his celebrity status." Rose sounded suspiciously sympathetic. I frowned at her.

"He _said_? Wait, you spoke to him?"

She nodded. "I couldn't really avoid it. He was waiting outside when I got home, but I told him you weren't here and you didn't want to see him. He gave me this letter and made me promise to give it to you."

"And you did? Why didn't you tell him to stick a fork in it?"

Rose sighed and held the letter out to me. "He didn't look good."

"What do you mean?" I took it, my hands trembling slightly.

"I mean he looked like shit . . . well, as bad as a man who looks like that can look. He looked tired, like he hadn't been sleeping. He looked . . . pretty fucking miserable all around. Kind of like you."

"Gee, thanks," I muttered, still stuck on her description of Edward. Surprisingly, his suffering didn't make me feel any better. In fact, it had the opposite effect.

"Listen, can I say something without you getting mad at me?"

"Okay . . ."

"I don't think it's good for you to keep avoiding this. He obviously has something he needs to say to you, and I think you need to hear it. I've seen you go through breakups before, hun, but you've never been like this."

"What do you mean? I thought I was doing good, all things considered . . ."

"You are on the outside, but I_ know_ you, and you're just going through the motions. And this running away, hiding from him. What are you afraid of? You've already broken it off. Don't you want to know why he did it?"

I swallowed heavily—yes, in some ways, I did. Our conversation certainly hadn't given me any closure. But my vulnerable underbelly was still tender. I worried I'd find out our entire relationship had been a sham, a set-up to get me back for the baby-daddy cat stunt. At least now I could live with the illusion he'd felt something for me. Even if it hadn't been love.

Then there was that even more devastating emotion—hope. Hope had never gotten me anywhere before. It had always left me bruised with disappointment.

I regarded the letter in my hands.

Was Edward worth the risk?

Rose gave me a pat on the knee and stood up, disappearing into the kitchen. She was right, though I was loathe to admit it. It wasn't like me to hide from a man . . . and I needed to know the truth, even if it hurt. Because that was the only way I'd be able to move on.

I tore the envelope and unfolded the paper inside.

_Dear Bella,_

_Please read this. You won't answer my calls and I've been to your flat a dozen times, just looking for a chance to explain. (I was nearly mauled by your neighbor's pit bull in the process. Nasty git. But that's beside the point.) I can't concentrate on anything, do anything—they're ready to fire me and bugger it, I don't care. I miss you so much I can barely stand it. Take pity on me. _

_I suspect you haven't read any of my emails or listened to any of my messages because if you had, I wouldn't have to resort to bribing human resources to get Rose's address. (All I need is for the press to get wind of that little gem, and I'll be skewered once again. I trust your discretion, even if you think I don't deserve it.)_

_At this point in the letter I must acknowledge there's a chance you have read my emails and listened to my messages, and still insist on never seeing me again. If that's the case, then as much as it pains me, I will accept your decision. _

_Who am I kidding? I'm not a gentleman, and I won't accept any decision that includes the words "You," "me," "never," and "again." I must further acknowledge I favor my first supposition and conclude you've deleted and erased each message I've sent. Stubborn girl. This supposition is reinforced by the nine unopened packages I have here in my flat—I think you'd be surprised by the contents inside. None of them are illegal this time, I assure you._

_Bella . . . I'm joking because I don't know what else to do. I miss you. Every moment. _

_You thought the worst of me, and that hurts. But I can see __why__ you did, and that is the reason I'm asking you, pleading with you, to let me explain. Much has happened, and I can't tell you everything in a letter, so I have a request._

_The final show will be filming live tomorrow night. Please watch it. That's all I ask of you, you beautiful, infuriating woman. _

_Please._

_Still Yours,_

_Edward. _

I must have sat reading and re-reading the thing for twenty minutes, until Rose finally returned from the kitchen and stood in front of me, hands on hips.

"So?" she asked.

I held up the letter.

"Could I have made a mistake?" I asked her. My whole body felt electric, live with possibility.

She finished reading and smiled. "There's only one way to find out."

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><p><strong>AN: Let me know what you think! Also, just to give you a heads up, we are approaching the end of the story. Thanks so much for reading.  
><strong>


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer: SM owns it all.**

**A/N: Thanks to the awesome Mac214 for betaing and to my darling BellaFlan, Ms. Junkowski and DiamondHeart78 for pre-reading. **

**This is the final chapter. Please read the A/N below for more information.  
><strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 22: An Acquired Taste <strong>

On Saturday night I paced around my apartment as nine o'clock neared. After more than a week of believing Edward and I were through, his letter had thrown me for a loop.

_Still yours._

The fact that he hadn't given up on us when I had filled me with guilt; all along I'd fashioned myself the most fully invested party in our relationship, but Edward's perseverance had proven me wrong.

_You thought the worst of me, and that hurts. _

I _had_ thought the worst of him. But I still didn't know what I was _supposed_ to think. His letter hadn't really explained anything, other than how much he missed me and that he wanted the chance to explain.

_I miss you so much I can barely stand it._

Truer words had never been spoken.

Just then the doorbell rang, jolting me out of my head. I hurried to unlatch it, PV scurrying away in fear of being trampled.

Outside, Jake, Rose, and Emmett stood on my stoop, the latter's eyes widening when he spied me.

"Girl, you look . . ."

I glanced down at my printed pajama bottoms and fuzzy slippers. My hair was probably a fright as well since I hadn't showered. I'd been too busy pacing around and freaking out. "Oh. I should change."

"I like the pants," Jake said, giving me a winning smile. "Ducks are cool."

The three of them pushed past me into my apartment.

"Yeah, don't spiffy up on our account," Rose joked. She handed me a couple bottles of white wine, which I took gratefully.

"God, I need a drink," I said.

"Or three," Emmett rejoined.

Five minutes later, the four of us sat around my television, waiting for the show to start. I'd poured myself a giant goblet of wine and taken a few deep glugs to calm my nerves.

"This is so exciting." Jake put his arm around Emmett's shoulder and gave him a squeeze. Emmett snuggled closer. Their cuteness was borderline intolerable.

"I wonder what he's gonna do?" Rose took a sip of her wine and drew her feet up. "I mean, the show's live, right?"

"Yeah, he better have something good planned, or I'll still have to kick his ass." Emmett raised his clenched fist, and Jake laughed, which earned him an indignant look.

Rose rolled her eyes. "The day you kick Edward's ass is the day I join the Sisters of Divine Mercy."

Imagining Rose in a nun's habit after swearing off peen for life had me giggle-snorting.

"Thank you so much for coming over, guys," I said, drinking too deeply and wiping my resultant wine mustache with the back of my hand. "I don't think I could watch this by myself."

PV mewed from the floor, as if to let me know I always had her company—or maybe to express her irritation at Emmett and Jake for commandeering her spot on the couch. I gave her a sympathetic look, and she jumped up on the armrest and settled down.

"Oh, shit, here it is." Emmett grabbed the remote and un-muted the sound. My heart took a flying leap into my throat, beating hummingbird quick. There wasn't enough wine in the world to control my nerves now.

"_Tonight, on _America's Hottest Chef_, who will win the grand prize and walk away with a six month contract at Chef Cullen's hot new Queens restaurant?" _The announcer's dramatic question was punctuated by quick camera shots of Siobhan and Zafrina_. _I resisted the urge to growl._ "America voted, and we have the answer for you in just under an hour._

"_But first, we'll take a behind the scenes look at how Chef Cullen turned a run-down building into a world class eatery—we've got the first glimpse of what he'll be cooking up when the restaurant opens in two weeks' time . . ." _

I realized I was gripping Rose's knee rather violently; she swatted at my hand.

"Sorry," I whispered.

"'S okay."

Edward appeared on screen and my stomach plummeted. He _did _look tired; despite the makeup and the lighting, the circles under his eyes gave him away. But in his chef whites, standing with his hands on his hips as he surveyed the kitchen and the two women who'd made it to the finish, he also looked powerful. And hot as hell.

He was joined by Alton Brown, the Food Network's most endearingly annoying personality, who started asking questions about the show and Edward's experience filming.

"How does it feel to be coming to the end of this crazy ride?"

Edward gave him a small smirk. "The ride's not over yet, Alton."

After a little more back and forth banter, the camera cut from live action to a pre-recorded segment, detailing the development of Edward's restaurant. A montage showed the transition of the space from a dusty, dirty abandoned café to an elegantly appointed yet cozy enclave. Some of the fixtures I recognized—the mahogany bar gleamed under soft candlelight—but the walls were decorated with a tasteful nautical theme. Weathered netting adorned the wall opposite the bar, and an antique anchor hung above the door to the kitchen.

Thank God there were no buoys or stuffed fish.

Edward appeared in the frame, surveying his new establishment. He looked as content as I'd ever seen him. My chest welled with emotion; no matter what the future held for the two of us—at that moment I was proud. I glugged more wine, a comfortable buzz making my head fuzzy.

"Wow, it looks great," Emmett said. Jake murmured his agreement.

Edward gave a tour of the kitchen, and it hurt my heart to see the chrome appliances we'd polished together on our first 'date'.

"The focus of the menu will be seafood, prepared in a rustic, affordable style. We'll have fish and chips, of course, but we'll also feature a fusion of British and American cuisine.

"It's always been my dream to come back to America and open a restaurant, and I hope you'll join me and the rest of the staff here at . . . The Black Shell."

Edward looked at the camera pointedly, his eyes growing serious.

_The Black Shell? _

My mind went blank as the scene cut to the outside of the restaurant. The sign hung from hooks outside the door, lettering done in pub-style gold leaf. And under the words was a perfect replica of the tiny shell Edward had saved from the North Carolina beach. The shell that still sat on my dresser.

"Oh my God."

"What?" Rose's confused face turned to mine.

"It's . . . it's the shell."

"The shell?"

I realized I hadn't told Rose about the shell, and I couldn't find the words to explain. I sat staring as the segment ended, the camera focusing again on Alton and Edward.

"The Black Shell—an interesting name," Alton said. "How'd you come up with it?"

Edward smiled. "It's named for a special person in my life . . . the most special person. I hope she knows that."

Alton nodded knowingly. "Oh yes, I think we've all read the magazine."

"I'm sure you have." Edward's brow furrowed. "Which is most unfortunate, given that that article was complete and total bollocks. They took all of my statements out of context and cost me my girlfriend—my _real _one—in the process. And when my lawyers get done suing the **bleep **off the **bleeping bleep** they'll be sorry they ever **bleep—**"

A collective gasp went up in my living room. I spilled wine all over my lap—the last thing I saw before the show cut away to a commercial break was Edward's pissed off face. Holy shit.

"That would have been so much more awesome without the five-second delay." Emmett was the first to speak. "Though those censors have pretty impressive reflexes."

"Um . . . that was crazy." Rose stared at me, wide-eyed.

"You guys . . ." I suddenly realized I was standing. "I think I have to go."

"Go where? Bella?"

"To . . . I have to talk to Edward."

Rose stood, tugging away the purse I'd slung over my shoulder. "Bella, he's shooting a live show. They'll never let you in there."

"I don't care. I have . . . I have to go." I tugged back the purse and raced to my closet, pulling out a pair of flats and grabbing my coat.

Emmett and Jake rounded the corner behind me. "Bells, it's ninety degrees outside. Doubt you need the down jacket."

"Oh . . ." I glanced down at it. "Right. I gotta go." I flung the coat at them and ran out the door, ignoring the protests that followed me into the humid night air.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._ How could I have been so stupid? My quick walk became a run to the end of the street to hail a taxi.

_You thought the worst of me, and that hurts._

Now those words had an entirely new meaning—I'd assumed he'd known about the article and never gave him the chance to explain. Never considered he'd not understood what_ I_ was talking about. Fuck.

A cab pulled up, and I hopped in, giving the driver the midtown address. Though I'd never been inside studio before, we'd driven by a couple of times, and Edward had pointed it out. I just hoped they didn't have tight security.

I gnawed on my fingernails and tried to make sense of the emotions rolling through me—all of this could have been avoided if I'd just had a little faith in him. I'd had none. I needed to make it right, but I worried it was too late. After everything he'd confided in me . . . What if I was in his position? Would he ever be able to forgive me for abandoning him?

Pushing those questions out of my mind, I held on as the cab lurched down a particularly bumpy street. Finally, I saw the lights of midtown in the distance . . . but unfortunately traffic had come to a stand still. Grabbing a twenty from my wallet, I flung it at the cabdriver and hopped out of the car, walk-jogging down the street and catching the irritated stares of people I bumped into on the crowded sidewalk. Mid-town Manhattan swarmed with tourists and city-dwellers alike on Saturday nights. A couple that looked straight off the farm, fanny-packs and all, gave each other alarmed looks and me a wide berth.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit," I chanted under my breath. "Sorry, sorry."

"Hey, lady, watch out!" a gruff voice yelled from behind me.

"I'm sorry, but I'm the black shell!" My explanation sounded crazy, but it was all I had.

Panting now with exertion, I finally rounded the corner and spied the door to Studio 22A. I reached for the handle, sighing in frustration when I found it locked.

"Fuck."

I pulled harder, but it didn't budge. Ah, an intercom! I pressed the button, fidgeting nervously and trying to catch my breath.

"Food Network Studios," a voice answered.

"Hi, yes. Um. I'm Isabella. I'm . . . I'm Edward Cullen's girlfriend. His real one. Well, I was. I think I still might be. Um . . . I'm the one that he's talking about, and I really need to see him, so if you could just let me in . . ."

The voice cut me off, sounding irritated. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Cullen is in filming, and you're not on our list."

"Please . . . you have to let me in . . . I just need to see him. He doesn't know I love him, and I kinda just have to tell him and . . . please . . ."

Realizing I sounded like a desperate whack-job, I trailed off. What kind of half-baked plan was this, anyway? I expected to come here and just waltz in? I sighed and ran a hand through my hair.

Another voice came on, this one kinder. "Is this Isabella Swan? Bella?"

"Yes. Yes it is."

"You _are_ on the list. Security will come down to escort you, but you'll need your ID."

"I have that!" I said, frantic with joy_. I was on the list! I was on the list!_

"Good. Just a minute, please."

I waited for about five before the door finally opened. A tall, uniformed man with a shiny bald head came to the door and opened it, his eyes widening before he managed to control his expression. I looked down . . . duck pants. Crap. Bridget Jones would be proud. At least I had a bra on. Thank God for small miracles.

"Identification?" he asked. I fished out my wallet and nearly threw it at him in my haste.

He handed it back to me and nodded. "Right this way. "

I followed his brisk pace, and soon found myself being ushered into a small room with a table full of food and a large window overlooking the studio.

"You can wait in here. It's almost over."

Quickly scanning the stage for Edward, I saw him standing with Alton and two women—Siobhan and Zafrina. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but there was a large monitor on the wall above the window. A few people milling around gave me strange looks, but one woman, a petite brunette with dramatic eye makeup, came over.

"Hi," she said. "Friend or family?"

"Um . . . friend. I'm Bella."

Her eyes widened in recognition. "Bella, Edward's Bella?"

"Yeah."

Her smile grew wider. "I'm his stylist, Nick." She held out her hand. "Nice to meet you. Edward's said a lot about you."

"You, too," I lied. Edward never mentioned his stylist by name, but I knew he liked her. She seemed friendly enough.

She gave my outfit a once over, likely doubting my sanity.

"I left the house in a rush." My face reddened.

"Yeah . . . Well, I can see why you did. That whole thing was unexpected—of course they cut him off and tried to act like the outburst never happened . . . I think the producers even threatened to sue Edward. But the damage is already done.

"Right now, they're doing a retrospective of the show and profiles on Siobhan and Zafrina, and then they're going to announce the results. Though, if you ask me, neither of those idiots deserve to have a job at his new place."

Yes, I most certainly did like Nick.

"I wish I could see him," I sighed, eyeing the monitor.

She gave me a sympathetic smile, but then a boy with spiky black hair caught her attention. "We gotta go," he said, eyes darting to the door.

"Touch ups," she explained. I nodded, my eyes following them as they flitted out the door.

I settled on a couch close to the screen; Nick and the other stylist appeared on stage and went to work powdering and prodding. I could have sworn Edward looked in my direction.

Someone turned up the volume on the monitor, and all but the show's stars remained on stage. I shot daggers at Siobhan, with her stupid contacts and her stupid straightened hair, wondering how much they'd paid her off to tell lies about Edward.

With the cameras rolling again, the one on our monitor focused on Edward. His face seemed lighter somehow, his eyes crinkling around the edges as he smiled.

"Now," Alton began, "The moment we've been waiting for . . ."

He pulled out an envelope and stood, confronting Edward and the two contestants. Siobhan smiled placidly as if nothing weird had happened.

"America voted," Alton said, "and the winner of the six month contract at _The Black Shell_, as well as a fifty-thousand dollar cash prize _is_ . . . Zafrina Alfonso!

Murmurs erupted around me, and the camera panned to Zafrina, who clapped her hands and jumped, her tits bouncing underneath her chef whites. The acidic scowl on Siobhan's face could have peeled paint. I never thought I'd be happy to have Zafrina win, but after the week I'd had, she suddenly seemed the lesser of the two evils. How strange.

"Thank you, America! Chef Cullen, I promise to make you proud," she exclaimed, giggling.

Edward gave a slight nod. "We'll see."

"Hey," a voice said from beside me, "come with me."

It was the black-haired stylist guy. I nodded and stood, following him out of the room and, I realized, my heart hammering, toward the set. He turned around and pressed his pointer finger two his lips, indicating I should stay silent.

From my vantage, I had a great view of the entire proceedings—Alton offering his congratulations to Zafrina as Edward stood to the side, watching with an unreadable expression.

Then he turned his head, and our eyes met. The cameras must have stopped rolling because he smiled at me—a tentative, boyish smile that made my heart hurt. And I could barely keep myself from running into his arms. He quickly crossed the set with long strides, holding his hand up when someone tried to get in his way.

"Hi," I said. "Um . . . hi."

"You watched. And . . . you're wearing pajamas."

I nodded, trying to find any words that would make this better. I had nothing. "Edward, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Please forgive me for being so stupid."

He reached out and drew me into his arms. I let out a sigh, the tension draining from my body as I hugged him back. He responded just as fiercely, the hesitation replaced with strength.

"I'm sorry," I said again. I'd never stop saying it. He stopped my mouth from rambling with a slow, sweet kiss. It was like we'd never kissed before—I poured all of the love and desire and pain I'd felt in the past week into it, gripping him so tightly he'd understand I never planned to let him go again.

"I didn't know, Bella," he said as we broke away. "The whole time I thought I was talking about you. That's why I was so bloody nervous the night before . . . I'd given the interview without clearing it with you first, you know, about going public." He touched my chin and swept his hand through my hair. "I thought you'd be mad, and then when you called, you were even angrier than I'd imagined. I couldn't understand it. And when you were upset at the marriage thing . . . well . . . I really felt like a blasted idiot. Though in retrospect I suppose it was a bit soon . . ."

I shook my head. "I thought you were just going along with them. I was so angry, I couldn't see the truth. I should have trusted you. I'm so sorry. God, can you ever forgive me?"

He sighed and cupped my face with his hands. I couldn't stop touching him—his shoulders, his back, and his arms. "It's not all your fault. I should have told you about the stupid interview in the first place. I should have told you before that I love you." His voice grew low and husky, and his eyes blazed with desire that was tinged with a bit of fear.

"I love you," I told him, kissing his smooth cheek, then his lips. "I love you, too. I'm so sorry."

A throat cleared, and I tore my lips away from Edward's, finding myself staring directly into the face of Alton Brown. Behind him stood Siobhan and Zafrina, both of them looking equally scandalized. Siobhan in particular looked a bit green around the gills.

"You do realize we're still filming, don't you?" Alton gave us a small smile.

"Still filming?" I squeaked.

"Yes. Still filming."

My desire to have the earth swallow me whole had never been quite so strong. I felt faint, only standing thanks to the grace of Edward's arms.

"Well," Alton said. "I take it this is your real girlfriend, then?"

Edward glanced at me, and when I smiled, he nodded.

"It is."

I heard someone scoff behind Alton, and I turned my gaze on Siobhan. "Oh, get over yourself, stupid lemur woman. Go play with your monkeys."

_Just imagine the headlines tomorrow. _

**^_^ AAT ^_^**

"So it was all Jane?"

Two hours later, Edward and I finally arrived back at his apartment. At first the studio execs weren't very happy with his little stunt, but they'd relaxed once they got wind of the show's ratings, which had apparently gone through the roof. Twitter had exploded, and the entire Internet buzzed with the story of Edward Cullen's nearly sabotaged romance. My #duckpants were now infamous, destined as fodder for fashion "Don'ts."

The stuff of legend, or so Rose told me when I gave her and Emmett a call to let them know I hadn't been arrested.

"Mmm hmm. Her and her cousin Marcus—he was one who did the_ interview_." He used air quotes to emphasize his ironic one. Yes, I remembered the name of the reporter—Marcus Starr . . . Jane Starling. I hadn't thought anything of the similarity before.

"Hmm. I bet they're gonna fire that guy. And Jane, what a bitch!"

"She's mental," Edward agreed with a sigh. "And also fired. The strangest thing was she seemed to think I'd be _okay _with it all. Daft cow."

"It's too bad you can't get rid of Zafrina as well."

"Actually," he said. "Funny you should mention that."

"What?"

"My lawyers have gone over my contract, and there appears to be a caveat. It states I'm required to employ the winner of the show for six months—it doesn't list the job position."

"So that means . . ."

"It means The Black Shell has a new busser."

"Oh my God!" I laughed and hit his arm. It was just too good. "Does she know this?"

"Not yet."

"I do not want to be there for that meeting."

"No, I don't believe you would."

We settled down onto the sofa, and I reached out so I could rub his back. He groaned and hung his head forward.

"It's been a shit week."

"Believe me, I know."

"You deleted _all_ my messages?" His voice held more than a hint of irritation. My hands slowed and dropped to my sides.

"Yes."

He turned back to me and frowned. "That really hurt me. You wouldn't even listen." My stomach hardened like a rock.

"I let my insecurities get in the way of everything else—how I felt about you. I . . . I won't blame you if you can't forgive me." It hurt to say the words, and tears prickled at the corner of my eyes.

"I never said I couldn't forgive you." Edward rested his hand on my knee. "You forgave me once." He smiled wistfully. "You gave me a second chance."

"But this was different," I said softly. "We were just kids back then. I . . . I didn't really know you. Tonight, when I saw what you did . . . naming the restaurant and all. I realized what I must have put you through . . . God."

"Bella," he said, sighing, "what happened wasn't all your fault. I said it before—I should have been honest about the interview I'd given and about my feelings for you. Yes, you jumped to conclusions, but I can see why you did. Still, if we're going to do this," he gestured between us, "I can't have you running away when things get hard. I need to know that you trust me. That you believe the things I tell you."

"I do," I replied. "Maybe you can't believe me right now, but I do. I'll show you."

"And I promise not to keep secrets from you."

"Okay."

Edward wiped away the tear that had fallen on my cheek with the pad of his thumb.

"That's enough of this for now. I'm knackered." He yawned, and I bit the inside of my cheek, not knowing where we stood after everything.

"Oh . . . yeah. I should probably go."

Edward frowned. "You're not going anywhere."

"I'm not?"

"Not unless you want to."

"I don't."

"Okay then. Stop it. You're staying here with me. I've had about enough of sleeping alone."

He waggled his eyebrows, and I laughed, my chest lightening. But the heated kiss he pressed against my lips instantly erased the laughter.

"God, I've missed you," he moaned. "And these duck pants. Though I wouldn't recommend wearing them on national TV again."

"I missed you too . . . so much." His hands drifted up my sides, and I reached for the hem of his shirt, wanting to feel his skin against mine.

Suddenly, it occurred to me: we hadn't seen each other since I'd gotten my test results back, though Edward had gotten his the week before we broke up. The idea of having sex without a condom . . . well, it sounded pretty damn good.

I kissed him harder and pressed his pelvis into mine.

"Bed?" he whispered.

"Yes. Please."

We hurried to his room and fell onto each other, a rush of hungry lips and hands. I kissed his firm torso and moved lower, licking a stripe up his hardening cock as he watched, face flushed. I liked the way it leapt at the sensation, and so did it again, using my hand to work him to firmness as I sucked and licked at the head. Edward groaned, and I grew wet, not even needing his touch. But wanting it.

We wrestled on the sheets, mouths finding each other again as he rolled on top of me and nudged between my legs. After all that had happened between us, he still wanted me. Thank fucking God.

"Condom?" he asked.

I shook my head, and he smiled, sliding inside without another word. His eyes rolled back in his head.

"God, I missed this."

"Fuck . . . me too," I panted. The warm, slick sensation of his bare cock inside me increased my arousal to fever pitch. It didn't take long until I was grinding against him, grasping with my arms as he moved with forceful strokes.

He kissed my neck, then moved back and sucked one of my nipples into his mouth, giving it a light, biting tug. And then he was back, fucking me into the mattress with a single-minded purpose and a hazy, glazed look of lust in his eyes.

"Fuck, Bella. I'm gonna come." The hint of disappointment in his voice made me want to kiss him senseless. So I did.

"Do it. Inside. Please." I wrapped my legs tighter to hold him to me as he began to thrust more rapidly, shaking the bed with the force. He cried out and drove in to the hilt, which was more than enough to inspire my own orgasm. I came with a muffled sob into his shoulder, the pleasure almost unbearable.

We lay for a few minutes, our breathing settling as his cock softened inside of me.

"That was awesome," I said.

"Sorry I didn't last . . ." Edward smiled sheepishly.

"Um, I didn't either, if you didn't notice."

He looked a little proud. "Well, good."

We grinned at each other, and I knew . . . I just knew . . . we would be okay.

**^_^ AAT ^_^**

I woke up early that morning; Edward still slept, his handsome face relaxed, mouth slightly parted. After pressing a quick kiss to his forehead, I padded to the kitchen for coffee.

As the pot brewed, I sat at the bar and checked email on my phone . . . a mistake. I had about a million of them—my parents, employees, even high school friends I hadn't heard from in years. All of them wanted to know about Edward and me. I sighed and closed the stupid thing. Maybe I should just take a full page ad out in the New York Times, get it done in one fell swoop.

Then I noticed the stack of boxes on the kitchen counter—the boxes containing the gifts Edward had sent me. Looking over my shoulder to assure myself he was still asleep, I found the scissors and approached the pile.

Maybe he wouldn't want me to open them now. I hesitated for an instant before curiosity got the better of me—they were mine, after all—and slid the blade under the packaging tape of the first box.

Inside, I was surprised to see a small kitchen appliance I didn't immediately recognize. When I read the instructions, I smiled.

A cotton candy maker. And a note.

_Dear Bella,_

_Do you remember our Coney Island 'date'? I wanted so badly to kiss you. You looked beautiful with ketchup on your mouth (though I continue to detest the stuff). _

_-Edward_.

The next package contained a bottle of the same wine he'd brought me from Napa, and a similar, ridiculously romantic note. Box after box contained items that recalled the times we'd spent together, and I kicked myself for not opening them when he'd sent them.

I laughed at the one that contained another forty or so cans of Savory Salmon cat food.

_For our daughter_, the note read. _I miss her._ _And you_.

Finally, in the last box, I uncovered a small glass Mason jar filled with sand. My breath caught in my throat.

_From our beach. _

Dropping the scissors on the counter, I turned on my heel and almost ran back toward the bedroom. A sleepy, just awoken Edward lay tangled in sheets.

I held up the jar of sand.

He smiled.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thank you so much for reading. **As always, I'd love to hear what you think, so let me know! ****

**Yes, this is the final chapter, but there will be an epilogue to follow. HOWEVER, it will NOT be included at the end of the story here; I'll create a separate story for it on my ffn profile. So, if I'm on your author alert, you'll get a notice. If not, check my profile in two weeks.**

**Much love to anyone who's read, rec'd, and reviewed! And a special thanks to Mac, Diamond, Flanny, and Ms. Junk for all of their help through the process. I couldn't have written this without you.**


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